


All That I Am

by Laiquilasse



Series: The Object of My Affection [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Abusive Relationships, Age Difference, Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Arguing, Army Doctor John Watson, Arranged Marriage, Christmas, Class Differences, Cliffhangers, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Frottage, Gaslighting, Growing Up, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Incest, Knotting, Legal Drama, M/M, Making Out, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Non-consensual touch, Omega John, Omega John Watson, Omegaverse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pro-Choice Attitudes, Puberty, Rough Sex, Snogging, Texting, first heat, non-consensual scenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-09-20 17:00:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 57,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9501131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laiquilasse/pseuds/Laiquilasse
Summary: Sherlock. So, that was his name.John finds himself living with strangers, in the country house of his betrothed, aged only ten. The Holmes' Manor is a cruel place to grow up, and even moreso for a young omega boy. With his life's purpose apparently laid out before him, John struggles to come to terms with being engaged to someone he barely knows, and trusts even less. And there are monsters lurking in the manor, with their eyes on the young omega.As maturity looms for both of them, can Sherlock and John find comfort in one another, or is that a step neither is willing to take?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am such a noggin, starting another fic before finishing the last. But hey! A change from my usual set-up by having Omega!John, this time. Still, arranged marriage, AU, again. It has my heart. Enjoy! xx

The first time John set foot in the Holmes family estate, he was ten years old.

The drive from the East Midlands had been long enough, though John had fallen asleep half way through, his Nintendo falling into the footwell and staying there for the duration. He woke up as the family car ran over a raised cattle grid, long out of use, but still there, as if the Holmes gardens were overrun with sheep and cows.

What greeted John’s waking eyes, however, was not livestock. It was immaculate gardens, tall trees, and the sight of a large sandstone building at the top of the sweeping road. There was a stables and livery yard to the side, but John didn’t know what they were. Not yet.

“We’re here,” his mum sing-songed as they drew up to one side of the enormous house. “Have you got your shoes on?”

“Yeah…” John rubbed his eyes, and tried to wake up fully. “Does he really live here? It’s like a castle.”

“It’s grand, yes,” his dad turned off the engine, and unbuckled his seatbelt to look around at his son. “You’re very lucky.”

John nodded, because that was polite, but really he wasn’t sure what was lucky about it. Big houses tended to be cold, and the sort of places you weren’t allowed to touch things, or to run about. He got out of the car, his smart shoes meeting gravel.

Someone was coming to greet his father, and John was half-tempted to ignore them until his mother steered him into place around the car.

“Smile, darling,” she hissed in his ear.

John did so, smiling politely up at the adult man, whom he would later learn was an alpha named Siger Holmes.

The man glared down at him, and John’s smile slipped. “How old did you say he was?”

“He’s ten,” John’s father said.

The taller man’s nostrils flared, for a moment. “Fair enough. He’s broad, isn’t he? You _have_ had him tested?”

“Yes,” John’s mother handed over an envelope. “Yes, there’s no doubt.”

Siger Holmes tore open the envelope, and read the contents.

John wondered if they were going to be invited inside the big house, at all.

“Very good,” Siger handed the envelope back. “Appearances aren’t everything, and he has a fine face. I have no immediate reservations. Is he attending school?”

“A good private school,” John’s father said.

That was true. John’s school cost a lot of money, and included lessons about manners and etiquette – lessons John’s sister did not have, and she mocked him for them.

Siger nodded. “Hadn’t you better come in?” he asked, as if it had been the Watson family’s idea to stand doing business outside the front door. He led the way inside, telling them all it was fine to keep their shoes on, and showed them into what he called ‘the drawing room’, but to John it looked like a lounge.

He wished he’d remembered to pick his DS up out of the car. If he had to sit and listen to the adult talking, he was going to be so bored.

A lady was waiting for them in the “drawing” room. She was wearing a pretty dress, and John could see a red crescent-moon mark on her neck, like she’d hurt herself.

Siger walked in, and sniffed at the lady’s neck, and she seemed to like it, because she smiled.

John glanced at his parents. Neither of them had ever done anything like that, but they didn’t seem surprised by seeing other people doing it. Maybe it was a posh sort of kissing.

“This is my mate, Violet,” Siger introduced the lady, who bobbed a curtsey, and nodded at John’s parents, but didn’t try and shake hands.

“I’m John, this is my – my wife, Leah, and our son… also John.”

“Imaginative,” Siger grinned, and John junior wanted to scowl at him, but didn’t.

Violet looked at John, and smiled, and it looked like a proper one – not the sort adults usually gave to children. “Hello, John,” she extended a hand.

John shook it. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs Holmes.”

“What a polite young man you are,” she squeezed his grip and let go. “I’m so happy to meet you, too. And I’m sure Sherlock is.”

 _Sherlock_. So, that was his name.

John knew how to keep his face impassive, and not surprised. He and his parents had been told there was a possibility of one of two options for John to end up engaged to. It looked like it had already been decided.

So, he nodded, and smiled.

“Sherlock?” John’s mum asked. “Not – not Mycroft?”

“No,” Siger said. He did not elaborate.

John wanted to look around the room, but it wasn’t polite to raise his head, or eyes, so he settled for the furniture. Dark wood. Worn patterns with flowers on. Rugs on polished floorboards.

“John, dear,” Violet said, as if she had known him his entire life, “I’m sure you don’t want to stand and listen to this boring negotiation chit-chat. Shall I show you to Sherlock?”

That sounded like she wanted more to put John on display than to show him where to find this other boy.

Still.

“Yes, please.”

Violet swept past him, and John followed, hands behind his back, looking up a fraction to take in his surroundings. Violet led him through the hall, down a corridor to the back of the house.

“Sherlock’s in the music room,” she smiled. “I know it isn’t typical for alphas to study the arts, but he claims there’s more maths and science to it than I realise.”

John nodded, not knowing if that was true.

“Do you play, at all?”

“No, Madam,” John said. “I had a few clarinet lessons, but the teacher said I wasn’t suited to music.”

“Ah, it isn’t for everyone. Do you sing? Paint? Cook?”

John felt like he was being cross-examined, like on the cop shows his father liked to watch. “I can cook,” he admitted. “Well, bake, I mean. Madam.”

“That’s a start,” she smiled.

They got to the music room door, and Violet knocked.

“Sherlock?”

“You know I’m in here,” came a snappish reply.

John’s insides tensed, just a bit.

Violet opened the door, and showed him in. “Sherlock, this is John Watson, dear.”

“Oh.” A boy turned from facing the window to look at his visitors. The backlighting made it difficult to see his features. “I hadn’t realised the time, Mother. You should have called for me.”

“I am doing,” she smiled, and nudged John forward. “Say hello.”

“Hello.”

“Hello,” they said in unison.

Violet smiled. “I meant Sherlock, John dear.”

John blushed, hating himself for his mistake.

Sherlock put down a violin and bow, and walked over, the lamp-light throwing his face into relief. He was pale, paler than John, and he had a mop of dark hair that John privately thought needed a brush. He wasn’t smiling, either, and it didn’t look like it was something he did very often. He was… different-looking.

John wished he had an opinion on his future husband that wasn’t indifference.

Sherlock offered a hand.

Violet shook her head. “No, darling, you can’t touch him.”

Sherlock lowered the hand slowly.

“It’s nice to meet you, Sherlock,” John said, covering the embarrassment in the room. “Were you playing the violin, sir?”

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded. “Is that your instrument?”

“John doesn’t play,” Violet said, and John felt his cheeks prickle.

Sherlock shrugged. “No duets, then. Unless you sing?” he looked half-hopeful.

“I… I don’t have a bad voice, sir. My teachers say.”

“Perhaps once it’s broken,” Sherlock grinned, flashing white teeth, and John wondered what he meant. “What year are you in at school, then?”

“Six,” John said shyly.

Something faltered under Sherlock’s skin. “You’re… eleven?”

“Ten, sir.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to his mother’s. “I see.”

“Your father is starting negotiations,” Violet said. She glanced at the door. “I shouldn’t leave him alone for too long…”

“You can leave us, Mother, I’m not about to disgrace our honour,” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

John did his best not to look confused.

“I won’t be too long,” Violet looked at John.

“Thank you, Mrs Holmes.”

And the lady swept out of the door.

Sherlock’s whole body relaxed as the door closed behind her, as if he’d been tense, ready to run. “Good lord.”

John blinked. “Sorry, sir?”

“Less of the ‘sir’, now she’s gone,” Sherlock stalked back to his violin and picked it up. “So, you’re not musical at all?”

“Six months of failed clarinet lessons,” John said carefully. “Did you want a musical husband?”

Sherlock was drawing a note as John spoke, but cut it off sharply at that last word. “You’re assuming I wanted a husband at all.”

John frowned. “Did you want a wife?”

“No. But, needs must. And despite the distasteful nature of your youth, it does afford me time to myself, yet.”

“What does that mean?”

Sherlock lowered his instrument. “You’re not mature, are you? I’d smell that, I think.”

“I’m… I’m…”

Sherlock frowned. “You do know what you _are_ , don’t you?”

“I’m… John Watson,” John said, flapping his hands against his thighs. “I don’t know what else you mean?”

Sherlock put his violin down, and walked over. “Your parents are both betas, yes?”

“Betas?”

“They’d have to be, really… I saw you looking at my mother’s bond-mark. You’ve never seen that before?”

“You mean the mark on her neck?” John frowned.

Sherlock nodded. “Because my mother is an omega. Like you.”

“I’m not a girl.”

“No, but you are an omega,” Sherlock said. “That’s why we’re engaged. Because I’m an alpha.”

John stared.

“I really think you ought to know all of this at your age.”

“All of what?”

“Well,” Sherlock laughed, “where babies come from, for starters!”

John went as red as a fire-engine. “That’s… rude!”

Sherlock’s smile softened. “Alright, maybe it is, a bit. But… this is why we’re getting married one day. Because you can have babies.”

John’s stomach rolled, and he couldn’t fight off the expression of horror. “I… I’m one of _those_ boys?”

“Afraid so,” Sherlock said. “Omegas are usually women, yes, but you work in the same way.”

“I’m not a girl,” John repeated.

“I know you’re not.”

“I thought we were getting married because we had to,” John said. “I mean… my parents said it was… a good match.”

“I believe it is,” Sherlock said. “For our parents, at least. Omegas are quite rare, you know. Boys, or girls. I imagine the classes at your school are quite small?”

John nodded.

“Beta parents rarely have omega children, and _never_ alphas,” Sherlock said gently. “Only alpha and omega parents have alpha or omega babies each time. That’s why we’re engaged.”

“So I can have babies?” John asked. “That’s… my job?”

Sherlock looked at him for a long time.

And then nodded.

John swallowed hard. “Wh-when?”

“Not for a long time,” Sherlock said. “You’re only ten.”

“How old are you?”

“I’m fifteen, and I’ve not fully matured, yet. You’ll probably be the same. You’ve got ages.”

Five years did sound like a long time, to John’s childish ears.

He nodded, and straightened himself up. “Sorry. I just… I didn’t know. That.”

“You should ask your parents, or teachers, for more,” Sherlock said gently. “I didn’t exactly mean to give you a biology lesson.”

John smiled. “I know. Thank you, for not keeping things from me.”

There was a knock, again, and Violet came back in.

“Everything alright, boys?”

“Yes, thank you, madam,” John said.

“Wonderful. Sherlock, come and say hello to the Watsons. They’d like to take a few photographs of you and John together, to send to their family.”

John posed for the photographs, his mind buzzing with babies and omegas and alphas and betas and weddings, until it was time to go home.

Sherlock said a polite goodbye, as did his parents, and the Watsons drove away with loud sighs of relief from John’s parents.

John sat in the back, and puzzled to himself.

“Everything ok, Johnny?” His mum asked, as they joined the motorway. “You’ve been ever so quiet. Did you like him?”

“He was ok,” John said. “Mum… have I got to have… babies?”

His dad coughed, and gripped the steering wheel tight.

His mum glanced back at him. “I’ll explain it all when you’re a bit older, dear. Is that something Sherlock said?”

“He did, but I didn’t question it,” John lied. “I was polite.”

His parents relaxed.

“I promise to tell you,” his mum said. “Just not whilst your dad’s driving, ok?”

“Ok, mum.” John looked out of the window.

Except his mum never gave John ‘the talk’.

Because they never made it home.

The articulated lorry swept sideways, crushing the Watsons’ car in between it and another hauler. John’s parents were killed instantly.

And John was airlifted to hospital, to come out of an artificial coma a week later, his parents dead, and his sister admitted to the Liver Unit with alcohol poisoning.

And a week after that, John was in a taxi, being driven back to the Holmes’ house, the belongings he had chosen in a suitcase beside him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads-up for an adult trying, and failing, to explain the birds and the bees.

The first two years were probably the worst.

John limped around the manor with his cane, on the days he felt well enough to leave his room. The manor wasn’t as sprawling as it first seemed, and the rooms were laid out easily enough for John to learn his way around. The most difficult thing to navigate was the large central staircase, which curved, and was John’s only way downstairs.

Though he had only met three of them on his first day, there were, in fact, six Holmes’. Violet and Siger had four children, of whom Sherlock was the youngest. Mycroft, the other name John had heard, was the second eldest, and still lived at home, leaving every morning for work, and sometimes not returning at night until the small hours. John knew this, because he would sit up to watch the car return, exhaling that someone else he knew had made it home safely. As well as Sherlock and Mycroft, the alpha children, there was Sherrinford and Eurus – two omegas, that only rarely came home, as they were attending some posh finishing school.

John had hoped for a little comraderie with the other two omegas, but Sherrinford ignored him completely, and Eurus treated him as though he was a baby, when she chose to speak to him at all.

The comforts of home were severely lacking in his new house.

Comforts at all, were all-but non-existent.

He had been dropped off after the accident, and shown to his new bedroom by Mycroft, who spoke kindly to him, never mentioning his parents.

“Once you’ve settled in, we can add a little more character to your room,” he said, watching John open his suitcase. He frowned. “Is that your only case, John?”

John nodded, looking down at the objects that were definitely not clothes.

Mycroft was quiet for a moment. “I image you take an age 12-13 in clothes?”

John nodded, again.

“I’ll arrange something for you…” he didn’t seem to know what to say. “Do you need anything, at all?”

“No, thank you.” John lifted the first photograph out of his case, and put it on the dressing table.

Mycroft had shown himself out, and silently handed John a box of same-day delivered clothes a few hours later. John had thanked him, and hung up the new things in his new wardrobe, where they hung like dead things.

He got into bed, and pulled the covers over his head, and stayed there for the rest of the day.

No one came to check on him.

No one came to get him up.

At first, John thought he was being given space. But after a week, he realised this was simply how his new home worked – you got yourself up. You comforted yourself. You lived a solitary life, in a house full of other people.

Even Sherlock was no help.

A fortnight after John arrived, he knocked on John’s door.

John opened it, and stared up, rudely, right into the older boy’s face. “Yes?”

Sherlock blinked, and cleared his throat. “I thought I’d… come and see you.”

“Well, here I am,” John gestured at himself in his three-day-old pyjamas, aware it was the middle of the day. “Take a good look.”

Sherlock looked mildly annoyed. “I believe I’ve read somewhere that maintaining a routine, getting dressed and so on… is good for dealing with grief.”

“Right,” John said, wanting to cry. “I… I’ve never had to do that, so, sorry if I’m getting that wrong.”

Sherlock stared. “You’ve never had to… grieve, you mean?”

“I mean… be my own grown-up,” John choked, eyes threatening to spill over at any moment. “I’m… not like you.”

“I see…” Sherlock looked uncomfortable. “I understand omegas need more, er, looking after. Than alphas, I mean.”

“I don’t know anything about alphas or omegas,” John said, wiping at his eyes.

“Please – please don’t cry,” Sherlock reached out, then held his hand back, as if John was dirty.

John felt worse than dirty. He was scruffy, and unwashed, and crying, and a baby. He’d heard Eurus say so, when she thought he couldn’t hear. And now Sherlock was looking at him as though he was sticky and gross, and he just wanted everything to stop.

“Unless you can bring my mum and dad back, you can go away,” John sniffed, kicking his door closed in Sherlock’s face. Unspeakably rude, but he didn’t care, anymore.

He expected Sherlock to wrench the door open and smack him with one of his slippers, but he didn’t.

There was a pause, and then the sound of Sherlock walking away, heading for the stairs.

Going to tell on John, no doubt.

Except no one ever came to tell him off, and John started to wonder if Sherlock had simply never mentioned the incident.

John’s puzzlement over omegas and alphas condensed and cleared, one day when he was eleven, when Mycroft and Siger hurriedly left the house without warning.

“What’s going on?” he asked, softly, padding into the kitchen. Eurus was huddled at one end of the table, wrapped in a blanket, shivering, although she was red in the face. “Are you poorly, Eurus?”

“God,” she laughed, sipping her drink, which had ice cubes in it. “How old is he?”

“Be nice,” Violet sighed. “He’s probably never seen this, before.” She looked at him. “Eurus is in oestrus.”

John blinked. “What’s that?”

Eurus snorted into her blanket.

“It means her body wants her to find a mate. To make a baby.”

“Oh,” John went red. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright, dear, it happens to all mature omegas.”

A painful snake of fear shot through John’s guts. “Even boys?”

“Even boys,” Sherrinford appeared out of the walk-in larder, holding a packet of biscuits. “Sorry, old chap.”

John looked at the eldest Holmes sibling, with his dark hair and lack of chin, and wondered what everyone seemed to see in him. “Ok…”

“Come on,” Sherrinford pointed with the biscuits. “Let’s get out of here before we’re knee-deep.”

“Shut up,” Eurus threw an ice cube at her brother, and he ducked, steering John by the shoulders out into the drawing room. “Girls on heat, they’re a nightmare, I tell you.”

“You said boys get it too? What is it? She looked sick,” John asked, before he lost his chance.

“It’s just oestrus. Heat. You know about heat?” Sherrinford raised his eyebrows.

John shook his head.

“Oh god, am I going to have to be your mum?”

 _Ouch_.

Sherrinford sighed. “Ok, omega to omega… Heats are when you want to _fuck_.”

John’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.

“Sorry – you want to, er… make babies,” Sherrinford grinned. “Your body gets ready to accept an alpha, and you’re fertile, you release eggs, all of that.”

You could practically hear the whooshing sound the information made as it went over John’s head. He looked helplessly at the older omega.

“Oh, for god’s – right,” Sherrinford grabbed a pad and pen, and sketched out a boy’s naked body, standing to one side. “You know what this bit is, right?”

“Yes,” John went red.

“Well, this –”

“I know what that is.”

“Nah,” Sherrinford grinned again. “You think you do. When you’re in heat, and actually, that’s not a requirement, but when you are, you really want an alpha to stick his –”

“Sherrinford!” Sherlock yelped from the doorway. “What in god’s name are you doing?”

“Teaching wee John the birds and the bees,” Sherrinford shrugged. “Why’re you still here, anyway?”

“I’m not a danger to Eurus yet,” Sherlock snapped. He looked at John. “Is he making you uncomfortable?”

John didn’t dare say ‘yes’ when he was stuck next to the eldest Holmes on the sofa. He just stared, helplessly.

“Come on,” Sherlock beckoned him, and John stood, looking apologetically at the older omega, who didn’t seem to care he was going, and was instead elaborating on his rude drawing.

“I’m sorry,” John said as they reached the hall. “I asked about Eurus… I know I shouldn’t, but I thought she was ill –”

“She’s not. Not physically,” Sherlock smiled sadly. “There are more reliable sources than Sherrinford to learn biology from. Here,” he pushed open the door to the library, and went in, John following.

“I didn’t know if I was allowed in here,” John admitted.

“I say you are,” Sherlock started browsing the shelves, and extracted a couple of books. “Here,” he held them out, and John read the titles.

_Growing Up for Omegas_

_Changing and Maturity – Omega Boys and Girls_

“Oh,” he blushed. “Right.”

“And maybe this,” Sherlock handed a third.

_Alpha Maturity Explained_

John went so red he was in danger of catching fire. “I… don’t think I need that, do I?”

“You might,” Sherlock said kindly, “once you’ve read the first two.”

John accepted it, and tucked the books under his arm. “So…thank you. For these. Sherlock.”

Sherlock smiled, just a little. “It’s quite alright, John. It’s not fair that you should have to stumble about looking for answers.”

“Eurus is ok, though?”

“She will be, in a few days.”

“And… why have your brother and dad left the house?”

Sherlock hesitated. “You’ll find out, if you read those. It’s… just a precaution.”

John didn’t understand, but nodded. “Ok.”

Sherlock glanced at the door. “How – how are you… doing?”

John blinked. “Um… a little better, I suppose. I’m – I’m sorry for slamming the door on you, that time. It wasn’t my place to do that.”

“It was exactly your place to do that,” Sherlock countered. “I should know what to say to my fiancé, shouldn’t I?”

The reminder of their status made John’s smile fall off, and he suddenly felt nervous. “I…”

Sherlock winced. “I’m sorry.”

John looked up. “You don’t need to apologise.”

“Then…” Sherlock held a hand out.

 _You’re not allowed to touch him_ , Violet’s warning sang in John’s head.

He reached out, and brushed Sherlock’s fingers with his own, dropping his hand quickly.

His fingers tingled.

It was like touching something fizzing, or sparking.

Sherlock put his hand in his pocket, like he was saving John’s tiny touch. “Enjoy those books, John.”

“I’ll try.”

 

*

 

John turned twelve.

He stopped using his cane, and started going to a day-school in the village.

He was no longer surprised when Eurus or Sherrinford went into heat.

He was not surprised when Sherrinford moved out, a fresh bite mark on his throat, to live with a man he’d apparently been courting for a few months. There was a party, after that, and John had spent most of it hiding in his room to avoid questions about who he was.

He _was_ surprised the day he got home from football practice to find Sherlock being restrained by Siger and Mycroft, in the hall.

“What’s going on –”

“Get out, Watson,” Siger snarled.

John ran straight out, and hid behind one of the cars, as Sherlock was hauled out of the building, bucking his hips and snapping at his brother and father as he went redder and redder in the face. He was dumped into a different car, and driven off at speed.

“Oh, dear…” Violet sighed, coming out to wave the car off. She spotted John, getting to his feet in his footy kit. “Sorry you had to see that, John. First rut is never pleasant.”

“Oh,” John realised he had read about it in the third book Sherlock had given him that time. “Oh, right.”

“So,” Violet smiled, “when you go into heat, Sherlock will be ready for you. Isn’t that lovely?”

“Yeah,” John wanted to scream. He’d seen the pictures, of an omega man skewered on an alpha’s… uh. It didn’t bear thinking about. And Sherlock and he were expected to do _that_ , one day?

It hadn’t seemed likely, before now.

Sherlock had always been quiet, and kind enough. And now he was snarling and raging and _strong_.

Too strong for John.

John could never fight him off.

He must have looked pale, because Violet patted him on the head.

“Not for a while, yet, John. You’re only twelve, darling.”

John nodded, looking out to where the car had sped away into the distance.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you, for all the love and support. xxx

Sherlock was gone for just over a day, coming back with his brother and father on the Saturday evening. John had spent the day sitting in the upstairs window seat on the landing, watching the sweeping driveway for any sign of a car.

John had been living with the Holmes family for a year, and he hadn’t been in a car since he was dropped on the doorstep. He walked to school, he cycled into the small town close by. He stayed in. Every time one of the Holmeses took a car out, he was on edge. Even with Sherrinford, whom he couldn’t claim to like. He felt as though he was holding his breath until the vehicle returned.

It was an extra special relief when he saw Sherlock and Mycroft and Siger get out of the black 4x4. He closed his book, and went to perch on the stairs as the door opened.

Siger glanced up at him, and gave John a tiny nod. Mycroft did the same, his eyes flicking to the book John held with apparent approval.

Sherlock did not look up at him.

“Sherlock!” Violet came out of the drawing room, and embraced him. “Oh, congratulations!” She kissed him hard on the cheek.

Sherlock took her arms and gently pushed her away.

To John’s surprise, she didn’t resist as she usually would have.

“I hardly think congratulations are in order for a simple biological event,” Sherlock said, his voice a touch deeper than it had been.

“Well, it means you’re a grown-up, now,” she smiled, dipping her head in respect.

John sat up. The dynamics of the family group had changed. Violet was talking to Sherlock as if he was in charge of her.

“And,” she was saying, “you and John will be able to –”

“I don’t wish to discuss that,” Sherlock snapped, and Violet’s mouth clicked shut. “I’ll be in the music room,” he brushed past his mother, and vanished.

John watched the other Holmeses shrug, and walk off together towards the drawing room. He sat for a moment, arms wrapped around his chest, thinking.

Sherlock had been carried to the car, snarling like an animal, bucking his hips, twisting like a snake. His teeth had been bared, and he had looked _furious_.

 

**Rut: A state of uncontrollable arousal that occurs in male alphas. First Rut is regarded as the sign of sexual maturity, and alpha boys must be isolated during this time to prevent them being a danger to themselves and others. If the alpha in question knots an omega regularly, there is no reason for rut to re-occur.**

**Knot: A large, bulbous swelling at the base of an alpha penis. Knotting occurs during penetration achieved during omega oestrus, and is a vital part of conception. Once fully swollen, a knot will become locked inside an omega’s body for upwards of ten minutes.**

John shook his head, trying to forget the words he’d read in those books. Books Sherlock had given him.

At first, it had seemed caring.

Now, it was like he wanted John just to be prepared.

Prepared for Sherlock’s rut, for mating, for knotting…

John’s stomach rolled, and he swallowed hard, feeling his entire body tense and contract. Sherlock could do that, now. That knot thing. That… that thing… John had to do that.

A slow, melodic tune cut through his fears.

Sherlock’s violin.

John listened, head against the banister rails, letting the soft music drift up through the floorboards to his ears. He relaxed, inch by inch, until he stood, and walked slowly down the steps, turning at the bottom to get to the music room. He knocked.

The music stopped.

No one said ‘come in’.

“Sh-Sherlock?” John called, his voice wobbling high. He went to touch the handle.

The door opened under his hand, and Sherlock stood, glaring down at him. A scent hit John’s nostrils – the first time he’d smelled anything like it, the first time he’d been nose-to-chest with an alpha – and he stepped back in shock at what the scent did to his bones. He felt warm, and cold, and dead and alive, all at the same time.

“What do you want?”

The abruptness of Sherlock’s words jolted him back awake.

“Erm – ” John tried to think. “I… you’re back.”

“Yes, I’m back,” Sherlock gave him a quick once-over. “And?”

John stared up, forgetting his manners. “I just… wanted to say hey.”

“Right,” Sherlock leaned back. “Hey.” And he slammed the door.

John stared at the wood in front of his face.  “Ok…” he turned, slowly, and walked away.

 

*

 

It went downhill from there.

John was sitting at the kitchen table, doing his homework, when Sherlock came and crashed his A-Level coursework all over the surface. John delicately moved one of the pieces of paper that was touching his work, and tried to ignore it. Sherlock unfolded a huge chart, and shoved it further down, so it half-obscured John’s textbook.

“Sherlock…” John looked up. “Um, can I move this?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, just clamped an expensive pair of headphone over his ears.

John shifted some of the papers, trying to only touch the edges, and went back to his own work. But it was like the papers were alive – they crept down, and back over John’s work until he had to stop.

“Sherlock. Sherlock!”

If the alpha could hear John, he was ignoring him.

John closed his textbook, and picked up his things. “Next time, just tell me to leave.”

“Noted,” Sherlock said, apparently having regained his hearing.

John sloped off to the library, and spread his homework out on the floor, trying to locate in his mind the exact moment he’d made Sherlock hate him.

 

*

 

Eurus went into heat, and this time Sherlock left with his older brother and father.

John mooned about the house, trying not to listen to Eurus crying out in want in her room.

 

**Heat: The common name for Oestrus – the fertile period for omegas. Occurring between twelve and four times a year, depending on fertility, oestrus is preceded by flu-like symptoms including a high temperature, hence the colloquial term ‘Heat’. During oestrus, an omega releases multiple mature eggs for maximum chances of conceiving. An omega’s birth canal produces lubrication to aid the knotting process (See: Knot). If left without an alpha, an omega’s oestrus can become painful as their birth canal attempts to clench and cramp around a knot that is not there. Aided by production of pheromones, omegas become extremely attractive to all alphas, bonded or not. Only if an omega is bonded will their attraction be focussed on one person - their mate.**

Eurus had no mate. She was twenty years old, and apparently old to be still single and unmated. She went out often with her parents for ‘introductions’, but none of these meetings went anywhere. John had heard Siger say that Eurus would have to meet someone closer to her heat, to make her more attractive.

John hated Siger more and more, these days. He looked at his daughter as if she was a waste of space, a waste of skin. He complained constantly that Sherrinford, who was at least out of the house, had not become pregnant yet, and even snarled at Mycroft for ‘choosing work over expanding your family’. Whilst Mycroft seemed immune to his father’s complaints, Eurus would retreat to her room, or the gardens, when he started to pick at her.

It was only through John’s presence, he knew, that Sherlock was spared this barrage of abuse. And John was still treated as though he didn’t exist.

John didn’t know if that was any better than the alternative.

He sat outside Eurus’ room, going in with bottles of water and plastic plates of fruit when her silence betrayed that she was asleep. He never looked at her on the bed, sprawled out and naked. He just left her food and drink, picked up any clothes on the floor, and closed the door behind him.

Violet was always extra kind to him, when he did this.

“Sherry used to help her,” she said. “I find it… difficult. I’m glad you’re here, John.”

John smiled. “She’d hate it, if she knew.”

“She does know, dear,” Violet said, turning the washing machine on. “She knows it’s you.”

John was quiet, then, wondering why Eurus never said anything to him about it.

 

*

 

John broke up for the summer, and walked home, the sun beating off his legs and head. It was hot enough for shorts. And skirts. Not that there were any girls at his school. All boys, mixed secondary genders, though, the village was so small.

He stifled a yawn as he opened the front door, to be greeted with Violet squealing about something in the drawing room. That wasn’t strictly unusual. He took his shoes off, and made to go up the stairs to his room, when Eurus called his name.

“John, come in here,” she grinned. “Come and add your own congratulations to the pile.”

“Congratulations?” John put his bag down, and loosened his school tie. “What for?”

“Sherlock!”

“Sherlock?” John followed her in, and was surprised to see Sherlock grinning widely, letting Violet take his photo, holding up a piece of paper.

“Oh, John,” Violet spotted him. “Yes, we need one with you two, as well. Unbonded. The before shot,” she pushed him into place beside Sherlock.

“What’s going on?” John asked, blinking at the flash.

“Sherlock’s been accepted!”

“Accepted?”

Another flash.

“Into university!”

“Oh,” John looked up at the alpha he was engaged to. “That’s… next year, then?”

“September,” Sherlock said, without looking at him. “I’m working a year ahead.”

John stared. Why didn’t he know? “Oh… well, well done.”

“Thanks.”

John walked away, moving to sit on one of the sofas. The Holmes family rejoiced together, and ignored the single Watson in their midst. Sherlock was going to university, for three years, to live and learn there.

Away from them all.

Lucky bastard.

“You alright, John?” Mycroft sat beside him, and he jumped.

“Oh, yes, thank you,” John said. “Just… bit jealous, I guess.”

“Yes, it is unfortunate,” Mycroft sighed.

“No, I meant… what’d you mean unfortunate?” John frowned.

“Oh, I assumed you meant you wish you could be in Sherlock’s place,” Mycroft looked at him. “Heading for university.”

“I’m only in year eight in September,” John scoffed.

Mycroft pressed his lips together for a moment. “You… you are aware that the terms of your engagement forbid you from Higher Ed?”

John’s insides froze over in one awful, sickening moment. “What?”

“I’m sorry, John… My father doesn’t want to put you through university. Your purpose is to provide more Holmeses. Not to get a degree,” he looked extremely sorry.

But John didn’t care. He looked at Sherlock, still smiling at his family, talking about his course, his halls of residence, his future.

One John could never have.

“I can’t go to uni?” John asked.

His voice carried, and Siger heard, looking over and bursting out laughing.

“Just dawned on you, has it, Watson? An alpha needs an omega who can read and write, and do the maths to run the home. Not one with letters after his or her name. You think you’re here for a free ride? That’s Sherlock’s job in the arrangement.” He laughed again, and turned to his mate, who leaned in close to scent him.

John’s nails bit into his palms as his fists clenched.

He looked at Sherlock, whose smile had dropped a fraction.

 _Look at me, you bastard,_ John screamed at him, mentally.

Sherlock folded his acceptance letter, and put it in his jacket pocket.

John stood, and walked out of the room, heading for the stairs.

“Just got it, have you?” Eurus was sitting halfway up the staircase. “We’re nothing but wombs on legs, to them. You thought you might be allowed to live like they do? They just want to breed us and that’s it. They _hate_ us. Alphas _despise_ omegas. They always will do. Because they need us, to make more of them. Sherlock will make alphas babies inside you, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

John walked past her, and half-ran to his room, slamming the door behind him, and locking it. He pulled out the old biology guides Sherlock had given him, and started to tear. Page after page he ripped out, screwed up, and threw until he was half-buried under a mountain of words and lies and a hopeless future he didn’t know he was destined to be trapped in.


	4. Chapter 4

School broke up for the summer.

Sherlock brought home six A-Levels at A grade, and John was forced to attend a party for him. The manor was decorated with sashes and balloons, and John was given a suit to wear that made him feel dreadful.

Unlike alpha suits, which buttoned up to the neck and had a tie, omega suits only fastened to the sternum, then flared open to display the wearer’s skin.

John kept pulling at the open material, trying to get it to cover both of his nipples at once, as it was supposed to, but he had to be a funny shape, or something, because it just wouldn’t sit right.

“Here,” Eurus caught him messing about in the hall mirror. She tossed him a roll of something white.

“What’s this?” John caught it.

“Double-sided tape. For want of tit-tape,” she gestured at her own dress, also wide open at the chest, though covering her breasts as much as possible.

“Oh, ok,” John pulled some of the tape out. “Thanks.”

“You don’t want pervy old letches looking down your top all night,” she shrugged, and swept through to the drawing room, leaving John to arrange his shirt more modestly.

The party wasn’t anything like the parties John had been to with his parents – this was mostly people standing around and talking, whilst people wove between them, offering platters of food. John tried a few of the tiny pieces that came around, and they were all too rich for him. He ended up sitting on one of the drawing room couches, half people-watching, half staring into space.

“John.”

He looked up at a very well dressed Sherrinford, who was holding the arm of his mate. John stood quickly, bobbing a curtsey, and averting his eyes from the alpha’s face.

“Polite little thing, isn’t he?” the alpha laughed, though there was no malice behind it. “Sherry told me you were sweet.”

 _Sweet_? “Thank you,” John said to the alpha’s knees.

“Not bonded yet, then?” Sherrinford took a seat beside him. “And yet they’ve got you turned out like you’re ready for the taking, honestly, what’re they like?”

John didn’t know how to answer. “I…”

“I’m surprised Sherlock isn’t taking you with him,” Sherrinford’s alpha added. “I’d hate to think of _my_ betrothed being so far away from me. And it isn’t as though you’d be the first omega taken to uni with their mate-to-be.”

“I think they even have special rooms,” Sherrinford added.

John wondered if they were deliberately trying to make him feel bad, because it was working. “He probably just wants to get away from me,” he forced out, trying to sound like he was joking, and failing miserably.

Sherrinford and his alpha exchanged a glance.

“I doubt that’s true,” the alpha said, kindly.

John smiled sadly.

“You’re very young, John,” Sherrinford added. “He probably wants you to finish school. Sherlock never had time for the uneducated. Why would he want a mate without GCSEs?”

“You don’t need GCSEs to have babies and cook meals,” John said, without thinking. He bit his lip.

“Maybe not,” Sherrinford sighed. “It’s only three years, John. It will go faster than you think. How old are you now?”

“Twelve.”

“Well, you’ll be fifteen when he comes back, and that’s perfect to start courting,” Sherrinford beamed. “You probably won’t even have had a heat by then, so it’ll be a lovely courtship, leading to the, er, inevitable,” he beamed, and John wanted to slap him.

“You’ll probably beat me to babies,” he said.

Sherrinford’s smile faltered, just a touch. “We’re not rushing into that, are we darling?”

His alpha didn’t answer aloud, just gave a quick nod, and John wondered what wasn’t being said. There was a peal of laughter from one corner, then, and the mood broke a little. Sherrinford and his mate excused themselves, and John reclined back on the sofa for a moment, scanning the room for Sherlock.

You couldn’t really miss him. He was wearing a deep blue suit, his dark curls looking messy, but John knew he’d been in the bathroom for a good hour ‘doing’ his hair. He was smiling politely at a story someone was telling. He’d gotten taller in the last few weeks, his maturity finishing off puberty like sanding-off a rough patch of wood on a sculpture. Sherlock’s features had changed from ‘striking’ to ‘handsome’, and the slight strain on the buttons of his shirt betrayed he’d been growing outwards, as well as up.

John hated himself for noticing. He didn’t want to _know_ Sherlock was bigger and stronger than he was. It was just fuel for his night-time worries, when he lay in bed and fretted about having a heat, and Sherlock bursting into the room and –

He stood, clearing his head, and carefully exited the room, heading into the kitchens where there were plates of vol au vents ready to be taken out to the guests. He ignored the rich food, and grabbed a bar of chocolate from the ‘secret drawer’, which wasn’t really a secret.

He broke a piece off, and stood, chewing it forlornly as beta serving staff ignored him, bustling around to make all the other guests happy.

 

*

 

Harry was allowed to visit, in the third week of the holidays.

John thundered down the stairs, and threw himself at her, as soon as she stepped through the door.

“Oof! God, John, you’ve grown,” she hugged him back, and leaned back to look at him. “You look… lovely.”

John wished he could say the same back.

Harry looked thin. She had always been what their parents called ‘bonny’, but now there wasn’t a scrap of meat on her. She looked extremely thin in the face, especially.

Ill.

“Are you ok?” John asked.

She smiled, though it didn’t quite meet her eyes. “I’m fine, John. Just a bit run down, at the moment. Had to take a bit of a break from college.”

“Did you want to see your room, and freshen up a little?” Violet interrupted, looking with distaste at Harry’s muddy DMs.

“Oh, yes, thank you, Mrs Holmes.”

John let Harry drop her bags off before dragging her out into the gardens. The less time they had to spend in the house, the better. He’d been looking forward to his sister coming for _months_ , but now she was here…

She wasn’t the Harriet he remembered.

This Harry was slow, and tired, and sick-looking. She didn’t laugh, or try and tickle him, or chase him.

She’d turned into a beastly grown-up, with her own problems.

“Are you going to college?” John asked, after they’d circles the koi pond without saying a word.

“Oh… sort of. Part time. Clara’s starting a business, and offered me a job, so I’m going to work there, for a bit.”

“Doing what?”

“She’s a hairdresser, so it’ll be washing hair, sweeping up, that sort of thing.”

John couldn’t help thinking their parents would be less than impressed at this choice of career.

“And what about you, Johnny? Still want to be a doctor?”

The words stabbed John straight in the heart. “…no.”

“Why?” Harry looked at him. “What’s changed your mind?”

“I can’t go, can I?” John snapped “To uni. Omegas don’t go to uni, do they?”

Harry blinked at him. “I… I never thought about it.”

“Well, we don’t. We stay at home and have babies and clean the house. That’s what we do for a job,” John kicked at the neatly raked gravel. “So, no, I –”

“You still want to be one, but you can’t be,” Harry clarified. Is that right?”

John nodded.

“That’s unfair.”

“Welcome to my world.”

They changed the subject, and it wasn’t brought up again.

Until dinner, that night.

Harry looked up at the table-occupants – Siger, Violet, Eurus, Sherlock, and her brother, before opening her mouth. “Which university are you going to, Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked up in surprise. “Oxford. Lincoln college. Do you know it?”

“I’ve seen it on University Challenge,” Harry smiled, and John looked at his plate, wishing his fish would come back to life and swallow him to avoid this. “Why aren’t you taking John with you?”

There was a horrible, horrible silence.

John kept his eyes down, feeling his face ignite, praying it would be obvious he hadn’t asked his sister to pry like this.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “I can hardly take a twelve year old to university. John is still at school.”

“He could go to a school in Oxford, though?”

 _Shut up!_ John mentally screamed.

“He could, but he’s just settled where he is. I don’t want to have to uproot him again.”

John glanced up, quickly. Sherlock’s hand were tense on his cutlery, though his face showed not a drop of stress.

“Have you asked him if he’d want to go?”

Siger’s knife shrieked over his plate. “An omega does as they are told. Sherlock is an alpha, Miss Watson. He makes John’s decisions. He does not need to _ask_ if John would like to do x or y. He instructs. That is how it works.”

Sherlock nodded in agreement.

Harriet barely blushed. “That seems a little one-sided. My brother is intelligent, he could go on to university himself. He should.”

John wondered if it was possible to will yourself into evaporating.

Siger spluttered in disbelief. “Uni – university? For an omega? What an utter waste of time and money. What’s an omega going to do with a degree?”

“Work?” Harry said, as if the older man was an idiot.

“Work? An omega’s place is in the home, raising their alpha’s children, not slaving behind some counter.”

“John could be a doctor,” Harry sad. “He always wanted to be.” She looked at Sherlock. “You should at least let him try.”

Sherlock lowered his cutlery. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t take the advice of an alcoholic beta woman,” he said.

John’s stomach flipped.

Harry put her own knife and fork down. “Right.” She pushed her chair back. “That’s what you’re really like, then.” And she left the room, slamming the door behind her.

John didn’t move.

Siger sighed. “These betas. It’s a wonder her parents produced an omega at all, with those genes. You’ll have to keep an eye for any insubordination, Sherlock.”

 _He means from me_ , John thought.

“John has always been well behaved,” Sherlock said. “But yes, I agree. I trust you to keep an eye on him whilst I’m away, Father.”

“And I will.”

 

*

 

Harry left the next morning, hugging John close and promising to get clean for him, to come back for him, to take him away from all this.

John nodded, and patted her, waving her car goodbye, and knowing it was never going to happen. He was stuck here, stuck in this life, forever.

Sadness suddenly welled up inside him, and he half-ran around the side of the house to the stables, letting himself in, and closing the door before flopping down onto the hay beside one of the horses.

The horse looked at him, and went back to chewing on something. Animals didn’t mind omegas, and some omegas became veterinarians, if they were allowed to.

John brought his knees up to his face, and let tears come.

He hated to cry, but it was the only thing he could do, right then.

Harry had tried, he knew she had, but it had been in entirely the wrong way. She’s made herself look stupid, and made John look as though he’s been telling her to fix things for him. It wasn’t her fault, but her kindness might just have made life difficult for her brother.

Even moreso.

The stable door opened, and John looked up as Sherlock walked in.

Sherlock jumped, doing a double-take at the omega on the floor. “What’re you doing in here?”

“I’m…” John wiped his face. “Nothing.” He stood. “Am I not allowed to be in here?”

“You are, I just… I was just asking,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, and went to the tack wall. “You’ve been crying.”

“You should be a detective,” John said, rudely.

Sherlock didn’t shout at him. He actually smiled. “Maybe.” He picked a riding crop off the wall, and John suddenly tensed.

“What’s that for?”

“It’s an experiment,” Sherlock flexed the leather between his hands, and John saw the muscles in the alpha’s arms flex, too. Fear told him to remain completely still. Sherlock was legally allowed to strike him, and John’s sister _had_ been an embarrassment…

Sherlock lowered the crop, and looked down at him, instead.

“Do you miss your sister?”

“Yes, but that’s not why…” John gestured at the floor.

Sherlock frowned, just a little. “ You’re worried about last night.”

John nodded.

Sherlock did, too. “It was unfortunate, but you’re not in charge of your sister, John. It was clear she was acting in what she assumed was your best interest.”

“I didn’t tell her to say those things,” John said. “I swear.”

“That much was obvious from your behaviour,” Sherlock smiled, and John felt the knot of fear in his belly loosen, just a touch. “You don’t need to explain yourself to me, John.”

“I don’t want you to… be angry with me.”

“I’m not,” Sherlock stepped closer, and John realised just how much bigger he was. Taller, and stronger, and the idea that they would one day be bonded…

John’s cheeks prickled.

“You’re frightened of me,” Sherlock said.

John nodded, there was no point denying it.

Sherlock sighed, stepping back. “I’m not the one you need to fear, John.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean there are worse things than being bonded to me,” Sherlock said gently. “I know it seems a long way away, but I have no intention of –”

“It’s ok,” John said quickly. “I… I read those books. I know what happens.”

Sherlock blinked. “I see.”

“It’s ok,” John repeated.

“… it isn’t being bonded you’re upset about. Then… was your sister correct? You do wish to study?”

“I… I wasn’t aware I wasn’t allowed to,” John said carefully. “My parents… never said so.”

“Indeed…” Sherlock swished the riding crop by his side, tapping his calf gently with the pad. “John… there are some things that it is not in my power to give.”

“I get that,” John said. “I’m not asking for anything.”

“But you want to.”

John didn’t answer, just looked at the dirty floor.

Sherlock hesitated, then stepped closer again, leaning down to look the little boy in the face. “You’ll stay safe, for me? When I’m gone?”

“I’ll try,” John said, his voice very small, just like his body.

Sherlock glanced at the door, then reached out.

John daren’t move.

Sherlock’s touch ran over his hair, down the back of his skull, gently, like stroking a scared bunny, or something.

“It’s alright,” Sherlock said, his voice soft, like a secret. “It’s alright.”

John exhaled, and actually leaned forward, to rest his head on Sherlock’s chest. But the alpha stood, and John had to catch himself, feeling strange. Had he _meant_ to do that?

“It’s only a few years,” Sherlock smiled down at him. “I’ll be back before you know it, John.”

 _I hope so_ , John thought, as his – _his_ – alpha swept out of the door, riding crop in hand.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for non-consensual touch.

Sherlock left on the first of September.

Mycroft took the day off work to drive him down to Oxford, and John sent silent prayers towards the car as the family did their goodbyes. They were all out on the sweeping gravel drive, in the sunshine, Violet and Eurus in those sundress things that women wore when it was too hot for chinos, John in shorts, but Siger and his sons still in their suit trousers. Sherrinford was absent, of course, having said his goodbye over the phone the night before.

John wandered away from the group hugs and photographs at the door, and touched the shiny body of the car, thinking about how fragile the machine was, really, under this thin case of metal.

“Haven’t seen you for a while, John,” Mycroft came over, away from where his mother was fussing over her youngest son. “Did you have a good summer?”

“Um…” John thought about the six weeks of being holed up in his room, doing his homework. He’d only really come out for meals, and to make a trip to the dentist by himself, though Violet had made the appointment for him. John had spent the summer reading; working his way through the library. He’d deliberately chosen to read through every medical dictionary, Sherlock’s A-Level Biology textbooks, and anything science-based he could get his hands on. It felt like a sort of petty revenge for having his future snatched away – they couldn’t steal his knowledge and memories, could they?

Mycroft smiled. “I’ll take that as a ‘no’?”

“It was productive,” John shrugged. He didn’t feel nervous around Mycroft, for some reason – as though the oldest Holmes brother was less of a threat to him, or understood him better… Maybe it was just the way he spoke.

“Productive is good,” Mycroft nodded. “Sherlock told me you’d been reading his textbooks.”

John looked up sharply, going red. “How did he –”

“He’s been keeping more of an eye on you than you know,” Mycroft said softly. “Don’t mistake his aloofness with lack of care, or interest. He is not a stupid man, my brother. We are both concerned about leaving you here.”

“Then why aren’t I going with him?” John whispered. “What – what is there to be concerned about?”

“Sherlock was _not allowed_ to apply for a shared room,” Mycroft said, barely moving his lips. “Siger believes it is in Sherlock’s best interest to study without distraction. He also worries that outside of his house you might be able to access things he does not agree with.”

“What?”

“I mean hormone delay therapy,” Mycroft leaned down, under the guise of picking a hair off John’s polo shirt.

“I don’t understand,” John breathed, panic starting to rise inside him.

“There are tablets you can take, to delay coming of age,” Mycroft said quickly. “Sherlock suggested them as soon as you left the manor that first day – he was very concerned about your age. Siger was furious – he lashed out at Sherlock, and forbade him to mention the subject again. I broke them apart.”

John stared, his heart starting to go very fast. He could see Violet, Siger, and Sherlock starting to head over.

“Do not drop your guard for a moment,” Mycroft said to him. “You are Siger’s target for expanding his family. Sherry hasn’t produced, and it’s doubtful Eurus ever will. Do not drop your guard, John.” Mycroft turned to his family with a convincing smile. “Ready to go, brother mine?”

“After one more goodbye,” Sherlock looked at John, who tried to arrange his features properly.

“Um… bye,” he said. “Have – have a good time?”

“I’ll see you at Christmas,” Sherlock suddenly bent down and pulled John into a hug.

A hug.

They’d never hugged, before.

John inhaled, scenting, for the first time, the alpha scent of Sherlock. John wasn’t mature enough to scent properly, yet, but he picked up enough. Enough to make the taste of copper flood his mouth, and his skin prickle as if scalded.

And Sherlock’s mouth was at his ear.

“Mycroft is right.”

John blinked, relaxing as the hug was released, and Sherlock’s whispered words soaked into his mind. Sherlock let him go, keeping eye contact with him for as long as possible.

“Be good,” he said louder, so everyone could hear.

“I will,” John said, his mind spinning.

“Come on, Sherlock, he’s not about to mature because of you hanging about,” Siger chuckled.

Sherlock pulled his lips taut in what might be called a smile, if you were being generous. He glanced back at John, and nodded, once.

John didn’t know what to do. He could feel the sun beating down on his bare legs, the slight breeze seeking to move hair that wasn’t really there, yet. Sherlock was getting into the car with Mycroft, and Eurus was pulling John out of the way by the wrist, and what was going on?

“Stop crying, omega,” Siger sniped at Violet. “He’ll be back at Christmas.”

Violet stopped crying. Or, at least, stopped sniffing, though her chest was still trembling as she held back sobs.

Eurus let go of John’s wrist to wave. Her sleeve fell up, and John caught sight of fading brown bruises up her arm.

The car beeped, cheerfully, setting off down the driveway.

And two heavy touches landed on John’s shoulders.

A hand on each.

An alpha hand.

Siger gripped John’s shoulders tight.

 _Don’t drop your guard_ , Mycroft’s warning blazed in the young omega’s mind, and he pulled away from the touches, half-walking after the car, waving, as if he was enthusiastic.

His top was damp from the touch.

 

*

 

It was almost a relief to go back to school.

John did his tie up in the hall mirror, and ran out of the front door when he saw Siger coming down the main stairs.

He hadn’t slept well, the nights following Sherlock’s departure. John felt that tight grip on his shoulders every time he closed his eyes. He checked his door was locked three or four times before risking climbing under the covers. He only felt safe enough to fall asleep when he knew Mycroft was in the house, which was now only once or twice a week.

_Don’t drop your guard._

_Mycroft is right._

_He lashed out at Sherlock. I broke them apart._

John shook his head as he walked to school. Sherlock had only been fifteen, then. Imagining him trying to fight off a fully-grown alpha man was terrifying. Moreso, because John kept imagining himself in that position, and knew he’d be utterly powerless. Sherlock was well-built and tall, but Siger was broader, and meaner, and John didn’t doubt that he was behind the bruises on Eurus’ arm. The man seemed to loathe omegas, and only be interested in expanding his family.

“Alright, John?” a chubby beta boy with glasses joined him on the pavement.

“Alright, Mike.”

“Good summer?”

“Nah… you?”

“We went to Greece.”

“Nice.”

“You should have come out a few times, I missed you.”

“Ha, as if…” John felt almost pleased he’d been missed. “Bit difficult for me to get out, you know?”

“I get you. You stopping out tonight, though, yeah?”

“I don’t know…”

“Come on,” Mike pushed his glasses up his nose. “First game of the season!”

“It’s only Rounders!” John laughed.

“It’s team spirit. Come on, you’re already out the house.”

John considered. “Ok. If anyone wants an omega on their team.”

“You’re fast, you’ll get picked no problem. I’ve heard James say you’re fast.”

“Yeah, I am…” John walked a little straighter, feeling better by the minute for being away from any Holmes.

They went through the gates, and John drifted with Mike to the group of boys he know from last year. They were all Year Eight, now, and (mostly) taller than the titchy Year Sevens milling about in the yard. John was one exception, his omega blood determining he was always going to be of shorter stature, but he was as broad as the other boys, he was pleased to notice.

“You coming tonight, Watson?” James Sholto, an alpha Year Ten with a wide grin and a scar on his chin (he said it was from a shark attack, but John knew he’d done it on a scalpel in the school science labs a couple of years ago, trying to pretend to shave) looked down at him.

“Sure, if you want,” John shrugged, pretending not to be bothered.

“You still fast?”

“Faster than you.”

Sholto laughed. “Ok, you’re on my time. We’re playing skins, ok?”

“Uh, really?” John groaned. “Can’t we do ties and not ties, or something?”

“Watson, it’s like twenty five degrees in the shade.”

John held his hands up. “Fine, but don’t come crying to me when you get blinded by my white skin, it’s not seen daylight for years.” Everyone laughed.

“Ok, John Watson and his peaky nipples on my side,” Sholto rolled his eyes. “We’ll toss for bat, yeah?”

“Like you’ve not done enough tossing in the holidays?” someone leered.

“Fuck off!”

John backed away from the banter, blushing as he cottoned onto what the older boys were talking about. The bell rang, thankfully, and the group broke apart, Mike and John heading for their tutor group as the older boys want off, punching each other and laughing. It was weird – John was almost scared of how rough they were with one another, but at the same time they were so easy and happy in their friendship. John had Mike, but he didn’t really have anyone like that.

 

*

 

The Rounders game took place on the ‘Big Field’ at the back of the school. It had just been mown, and the bits of grass stuck to the boys’ shoes and socks as they used their bags to mark out a square to run around, and the bowler’s position. They’d liberated a few bats and balls from the PE stores, and the hot summer sun meant they were all chugging water and soft drinks even before they’d started running.

“Right, Sholto’s team are skins, and they’re batting first,” a Year Eleven had nominated himself as referee. “We’ll do all ten of you, then we can do a straight swap, ok?”

John sighed as he dropped his bag and started unbuttoning his top. He was the only omega who’d been asked to play – the teams were mostly alpha boys, with the odd beta. But John _was_ a fast runner, so it made sense… It only he wasn’t the smallest one there.

“Alright,” Sholto gathered his team around. “Anyone left-handed?”

No one owned up.

“Alright, just whack it, then. Make them run for it.”

“What about Watson?” An alpha boy with long hair nodded at John.

“John… Maybe you’d better go first?” Sholto said, sighing.

“Sure,” John shrugged, as if he didn’t care. “I don’t mind.” He picked up the bat, and went to stand next to one of the backpacks, looking straight at the bowler – a beta Year Nine with an evil grin on his face.

The Year Nine rolled the ball in his hands, then swung it overarm quickly.

John raised the bat and cracked the ball hard to the left.

It went _behind_ him.

John’s team cheered as John dropped the bat and started running, the fielding team dashing in a panic to get to the ball that had gone in the opposite direction to what they’d expected. John made it to the third base before the bowler caught the ball back, and he stood, grinning at his team. Sholto gave him the thumbs-up.

By the time Sholto’s team was fielding, the sun was starting to go down.

But John hardly noticed. He was pelting all over the field for the ball, throwing it to his team-mates hard, and knocking out two of the batting team before they called it a day.

“Nice one,” Sholto held a hand out, and helped John off the grass. “Shit, your shorts are covered in grass stains. Your mum’s going to be pissed.”

“Unlikely,” John panted. “She’s… I don’t live with my mum.”

“Oh, ok,” Sholto offered him a water bottle, and John drained what was left in it. “So… you live with your dad, or?”

“I live with – it’s a bit complicated,” John crunched up the plastic, and flopped onto the grass beside his bag and clothes. “I’m… engaged, and I, like, live with his family.”

“Shit, that’s extreme,” Sholto sat beside him. “So... you’re not…” he looked at John’s throat.

“No, I’m not old enough,” John picked up his shirt and pulled it on, leaving the buttons undone as the cotton stuck to his sweating back. “But I… My parents were in an accident, and… They’re like, my next of kin…” he stopped talking, feeling Sholto’s eyes on him, and wishing he’d never started. “Yeah, it’s extreme.”

“Sounds it…” Sholto pulled his own shirt on. “Sorry, I didn’t realise.”

“I don’t exactly broadcast it,” John sighed. “It’s not easy being the youngest kid with a fiancé.”

“What’s he like?”

John considered. “He can be kind. He plays the violin. He’s tall… and handsome, I guess.”

“I hate him,” Sholto laughed, and John had to smile. “So, what, is it someone at school?”

“No, he’s at uni.”

“Crikey. Age difference, much?”

“He’s not into me like that, don’t panic,” John snorted. “He’s gone to study, and then… I guess, things will just… happen.”

“So, he’s not waiting for you? At home, I mean?”

“I don’t know if he’s waiting for me in any sense,” John admitted, and realised he’d voiced one of his own worries without really meaning to. He reached for his bag. “I should get going, anyway.”

Sholto leaned forward. “You – you don’t have to go. I’m sorry I made things weird.”

“You didn’t, I did,” John said. “I… Please don’t spread this about, yeah? I don’t really like the idea of people knowing I’m… taken.”

Sholto raised his eyebrows. “Don’t omegas usually want people to know they’re claimed?”

“Maybe they do if they’re grown up.”

“True…” he rubbed his scarred chin, and John wondered if he was shaving for real, yet. He could touch, and see.

John took a breath, and reached out, touching the other boy’s jaw, dragging up, testing for stubble. Finding the barest scratch.

“What’re you doing?” Sholto half-laughed.

“You’ve learnt to shave properly, then?” John took his hand away, grinning.

“Oi, this is a genuine shark-attack scar,” Sholto stuck his chin out. “Look, you can see the teeth-marks!”

“As if!” John laughed, leaning away.

“No, go on, look!”

“No!”

“Look, I think there’s still a tooth embedded in the corner.”

“James!”

John fell back, and Sholto tumbled on top of him, and for a moment they both froze, shocked at their own daring and closeness.

John bit his lip. “Can’t.”

Sholto nodded, and sat up and away. “Sorry.” He puffed out a breath, and John thanked his lucky stars neither of them were mature, yet. “Can I ask… If you weren’t engaged…?”

“Yeah,” John stood, and lifted his bag. “Yeah, maybe. I don’t know.”

Sholto looked at the empty playing field. “You’re nice, John. Too nice for this sort of thing, that’s for sure.”

“This sort of thing?”

“Kissing on the field,” Sholto looked up at him.

John stared. “No… no, this is what I’d choose. If I could. I’d rather have dirty knees, and grass stains, and sweat... Than a big house and an alpha I don’t understand, and his bloody parents.”

“Honestly?”

“Yeah.”

Sholto stood. “Then… who has to know?”

“I’d know,” John’s voice cracked. “I’d… I’m not meant to want this.”

“But you do.”

John shut his eyes, and stepped forward, into Sholto’s arms. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s ok,” Sholto stroked over his hair, and gently pushed him away. “Don’t do this now. There's no rush. You’ve just said you can’t.”

“But –”

“There’s always tomorrow.”

John looked up. “Ok.”

“You ok walking back?”

John pulled his bag onto his shoulders. “I usually am.”

 

*

 

John let himself back into the house, and dropped his bag in the doorway, as usual. He kicked off his shoes, and wandered through to the kitchen, meaning to raid the cupboards to make up some sort of dinner for himself.

He made it as far as the fridge before large hands closed on his wrists from behind, and a nose dragged up his throat, scenting him intimately.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for non-consensual touch, and gaslighting.

John had learnt in Science that there were two in-built responses to threat: Fight, or Flight.

But at that moment, with Siger Holmes scenting his virgin throat, he learned there was a third option: Freeze.

John went rigid, his heart thundering in his chest, stomach clenching, arms and legs buzzing with adrenaline as the older alpha man took his nose from the omega’s skin.

“I’ll give you one chance to explain yourself,” he growled, low and threatening, close to John’s ear.

John swallowed, his throat sticking.

The grip on his wrists tightened.

“I… we were… playing on the field. Rounders. That’s why I’m late.”

Siger didn’t reply.

And John was too young to realise this was a deliberate silence, to get him to speak more, say more. “There were lots of us there, you can ask anyone.”

“Lots of omegas?”

“No, I – I don’t know…” John realised his mistake, and tried to pull away.

Wrong.

Siger yanked John backwards, against his chest, pinning him hard with his own arms crossed and held tight in front of him.

John let out a cry, but didn’t fight more. The sensation of being held by this alpha was overpowering – he had almost no will to fight. His inner omega, still dormant for the most part, was trying desperately to keep him from harm. And the easiest way to do that, was to submit.

“You’re a disgrace,” Siger snarled. “Not only playing rough sports like some common beta, but I smell a teenage alpha on you. When were you going to own up to that?”

John couldn’t speak. He just shook his head.

“What – did he force you?”

“N-no.”

“Then you’re a slut already.” Siger gave John’s neck another sniff, and John’s knees threatened to give way. “You’ve been close to an alpha boy. Very close. Did you kiss him?”

“No!”

“You hugged him.”

“No, it was just – it was the game, and…” John tried desperately to lie convincingly. “We were fielding, and we crashed together. It was an accident, I swear!”

Siger loosened his grip on John, just a touch. “An accident.”

“Yes – we crashed, and fell – I got up straight away, I promise.” John realised he was crying.

Siger let go of him, and John stumbled away, pressing his back against the fridge, knowing without asking that he was not allowed to leave, just yet. Siger folded his arms and looked at him, slowly, down and up.

John could feel how wet his face was.

“All omegas are whores,” Siger said clearly. “All of you. Even, apparently, at your age.”

John just stared up at him.

“You act so innocent, yet you’re designed by nature to lure an alpha into giving up everything he has gathered for himself. Money, property, even our time you thieve from us. And then you expect cock every time you decide to go into heat.”

John could feel himself going very red.

“And no matter how badly you cry that you want a mate, the truth is you just want someone to fuck you. All omegas are sluts and whores.”

 _I’m not_ , John thought. _I’m not, I’m not…_

Siger stepped closer, still examining John. “What would Sherlock think of you, if he knew you’d been cavorting with boys?”

John didn’t know. He didn’t answer.

“Do you think he’d _like_ the idea of his omega playing rough sports, and sweating, and getting dirty with alpha and beta boys?”

“I…”

“He would be _disgusted_ with you,” Siger said, leaning close. John could taste his breath, layers of alpha dominance forcing him to look away. “Just as I am. Sherlock is not about to waste the best years of his life with an omega who won’t wait for him. You will not go near those boys again, is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Siger sniffed, looking over John’s neck. “If it were possible to transfer bonds, I would bite you right now to keep you in line.”

John sucked in a gasp.

“But fortunately for you, it isn’t. And I won’t take away the chance to mark a mate from my son. Even if his omega is a cockslut already. But… we can keep that between us, can’t we?” he suddenly smiled, and it wasn’t a nice smile, at all.

John looked up, slightly.

“Keep to my rule, and I won’t tell Sherlock how you let another alpha get his scent all over you.”

John gave a single nod. He didn’t have any choice, but to agree.

“Good. Clearly you’re not stupid, even if you are a whore.”

John bit his lip, the twelve-year-old omega trying to hold back more tears.

“Now, get to your room. Wash that stench off yourself.” Siger stepped back, and pointed at the door.

John walked out, at a normal pace, trying to stay calm as he passed the alpha, until he got out of the kitchen door.

Then, he ran up the stairs as if the hounds of hell were at his heels.

 

*

 

John showered for a long time.

He scrubbed at his neck until it felt raw, then his sore and bruising wrists, his chest, his face, everywhere he felt Siger’s touch, or eyes, had been. He felt appalling dirty.

Siger had said he was.

He shivered, though the water was warm, and soaped up his hair again, until the water got cold and he had to get out.

John dried himself, and pulled his dressing gown tight around him. He still felt hungry, and moreso now he was shaking and frightened. His body needed sustenance. He considered hiding in his room, but eventually steeled himself, and unlocked the door, creeping out in his slippers.

The manor was empty, save for the sounds of the piano in the music room. That was Violet. John listened, halfway down the stairs, for Siger.

He couldn’t hear his rough breathing, so chanced skidding down the remaining steps and into the kitchen.

 _The scene of the crime_ , he thought. He shivered, and checked behind himself, fearing hands closing over his own, again.

No one.

John opened a cupboard door, and started making himself a plate of crackers and cheese, when the doorway darkened.

“Who…” he stopped as he looked up at the wrong shape. “Eurus?”

“The one and only,” she went past him to the fridge, and took out several packs of unopened sliced ham. “What’re you doing here? And was it you who used all the hot water?”

“Sorry,” John emptied half a tube of Pringles onto his plate.

“What – you trying to scrub away the omega?” she grinned, the fridge light illuminating her teeth. “It doesn’t work like that.”

“I wasn’t trying to do that,” John said, picking up his plate. “Don’t be weird, Eurus.”

“Why not?” She shut the fridge, the packs of ham in her hand. “It’s all I’ve got.”

“No, it isn’t…” John started to leave.

“It is,” she countered. “I’m twenty-one, I still live with my parents, I’m unmated, and I don’t even have a betrothed. That’s weird. It’s what I have.”

“Yeah, well,” John shrugged. “Maybe you’re better off without all that.”

“You don’t want a fiancé?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Eurus narrowed her eyes. “Why _were_ you in the shower so long, hm?” She inhaled suddenly, deeply. Her eyes widened. “John?”

“It was just a bloody game of Rounders after school!” John snapped. How was James’ smell still on him?

Eurus didn’t say anything, just reached out and pulled down one of his dressing gown sleeves.

The red marks stood, like accusations.

John tensed, as Eurus cocked her head to one side.

“Daddy?” she asked.

John hesitated, then nodded.

She sneered. “I can smell him on you. The dominance stink. I’m guessing this _Rounders_ game is the reason why?”

“He could smell a boy on me,” John sighed. “It wasn’t anything… I wasn’t cheating on Sherlock. It was just…” He looked up, expecting sympathy.

Eurus looked shocked. “You let an alpha boy get close enough to you to scent you?”

“N – no, wait. That’s not what I –”

“You’re engaged,” she said, cutting him off, “and you let a boy get close enough to you to leave a smell? You _touched_ him?”

John’s mouth went, silently.

Eurus curled her lip. “Have you any idea what I, or other omegas, would do to be in your position, John Watson? Engaged to a handsome alpha with money and position and the potential for a good life? Sherlock isn’t a cruel man, he isn’t like our father. You’’d toss that away for a teenage snog?”

“I’m not tossing anything away!”

“Really? Then why did Daddy hurt you? Scent you? Hold you?”

“He…” John had to put his plate down. “He fucking threatened me, ok? He – he scented my _neck_. That – that was supposed to be for Sherlock!”

Eurus shrugged. “Looks like you don’t care who touches you. Didn’t take you for that sort of omega.”

“I’m –”

“Why’d you care if Daddy scents you? You deserve it,” she spat, picking up her packets again. “I thought you were better that that, John. If you really didn’t want people holding you, touching you, you could have stopped it.”

“What about you, with your arms?” John gestured at Eurus’ fading bruises.

She smiled, sickly. “Who says I don’t want them?”

John stepped back, horror and disgust coiling in his stomach.

Eurus smirked, though it was forced, and her eyes shone, as she left John alone in the kitchen.

He swallowed hard, his appetite vanished.

He tipped his food into the bin, and crumpled an old newspaper on the top to hide the waste.

He deserved it, then.

He was the worst omega in the world.


	7. Chapter 7

Christmas seemed to be a long time coming.

Twelve weeks, in fact. Twelve weeks John anticipated he'd be coming home in the evenings, grabbing few slices of dry bread and a packet of crisps or biscuits, before running upstairs and locking himself in his room.

Weekends were the worst.

John would delay leaving his bedroom until hunger forced him out, and then he would avoid eye contact with everyone and anyone he came across. Eurus would smirk at him every chance she got, whilst Violet tried, at least for the first few weeks, to work out what had turned the orphan omega into such a recluse. On the rare days Mycroft was home, he would offer to drive John into town, or to the library. Although the offers were kind, John refused them all. He hated being in the car. Mycroft also tried, once, to convince John to stay downstairs by putting on a DVD John had mentioned enjoying, once. John did sit in the lounge and start to watch it, but tensed rigidly when Mycroft sat beside him, even though the alpha was only bringing him a cup of juice. John blurted some excuse, and ran to his room. Mycroft’s eyes were full of concern as he watched him go, but John couldn’t stay.

The scent of alpha, that close, made him want to be sick.

And yet, the scent filled his nostrils at least once a week.

The days when John wasn’t fast enough running to his room. The days he had to put his uniform in the wash, or use the main bathroom, or even when he was tying his shoes for school. Siger would approach him from behind like a shark, grip John tight at the shoulders or arms, and hold him still as he scented him.

The first few times it happened, John was held still by fear. But as the inappropriate sniffing continued, John’s natural omega submissiveness slowly gave way. It was forced to, for his own preservation.

And, one day in early December, it slipped altogether.

John had been on a school trip, and he was exhausted. The coach had broken down on the way back, and all the boys had had an impromptu game of football in the car park whilst it was fixed. Even John. The first game of sports he had played since the game of rounders. He’d cried off PE since that day, Siger providing him with a note, saying he was too delicate for sports. But, this time, he didn’t feel like sitting out. He joined in with the other lads, who were surprised but happy to have a fast lad on their team, and the journey back to school was much happier, with all of them swapping sweets and swigs of Lucozade.

As John walked home, he knew there would be hell to pay. He stank of sweat, and probably of alpha and beta boys, too.

But he was past caring.

He needed to live. And he was hardly doing that.

John walked up the drive, noting Mycroft’s car as he walked past it. That meant more cautious kindness, which was tiresome. He sighed, and fished his keys out.

There were arms around his arms and chest before he got to the lock.

John screamed, kicking backwards immediately.

The arms tightened, and there was a snarl close to his ear.

John threw his weight to the floor, and the arms dropped him. He scrambled over the gravel, the stones biting into his hands before strong hands caught his legs and dragged him backwards.

“Get _back_ here!” Siger raged, dragging the little omega.

“No!” John twisted like a salmon, kicking out hard, freeing one of his ankles and kicking Siger’s other arm. “Get off me you sick fucker!”

“How dare you?!” Siger got hold of his legs again, John’s trousers slipping down his arse. “Get back here, omega!”

John kicked up. He got Siger in the ribs, making him lose his grip, doubling over. John scrambled to his feet, holding his keys like a weapon. “Don’t you dare come near me,” he said, his voice trembling. “Don’t you dare. I don’t care what you say, you don’t get to scent me. I am not _yours_.”

“You’re staying under my roof, you ungrateful little bitch,” Siger spat. “You my omega until Sherlock has you, and then you’ll still be mine, because Sherlock is mine.”

John shook his head. “I’m not. I’m not, and I never will be.”

Then, several things happened at once.

Siger bared his teeth and let out a pure alpha snarl of rage, lunging at John.

The front door to the house banged open, Mycroft standing in the doorway.

And John slashed out with his keys.

 

*

 

“John,” Mycroft’s hands were on John’s knees. “John, look at me.”

John, seated on the sofa, raised his head. The bloodied keys were still in his right hand.

“John,” Mycroft was kneeling in front of him, as no alpha should. “You can get go of them, now. It’s ok.”

The little omega shook his head.

“You’re going to hurt your hand, John.” Mycroft touched his clenched fist with soft fingertips. It took a minute of gentle extraction, but John eventually loosened his grasp on the metal, and Mycroft was able to take the stained keys away.

John stared at nothing.

“How long had that been going on?”

John shrugged.

“John, tell me.”

“…there’s nothing going on.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “So you attacked my father for no reason.”

John nodded.

Mycroft let out a bitter sigh. “John, I am not stupid. I’ve watched you go from an outgoing and happy boy to one riddled with disappointment to… a shell. What’s happened to you?”

John looked away. “Nothing. I… I brought it on myself.”

“Brought what on yourself?”

“Everything.”

Mycroft watched his face for a moment, then dragged the footstool over to sit on it. “Tell me.”

John was quiet for a long time. “What did I do to Siger?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Nothing I doubt he didn’t deserve. You got him across the face with the keys. Several times. I suspect you would have stopped if he hadn’t been trying to get his hands around your throat.”

John could barely process this. “I cut his face?”

“Yes.”

 _I’m dead_. He stood. “I… I should go, I –”

“He isn’t here,” Mycroft said. “He’s gone to hospital to be patched up, and I have no intention of letting him near you again.”

John looked at him, and promptly burst into tears, covering his face with his hands as he sobbed. Mycroft stood, and took John into his arms, holding him gently, so the omega could easily get away if he wanted to. But John snuggled closer, sobbing snottily.

“John…”

“I wish you were my alpha,” John wept. “You – you –”

“You don’t,” Mycroft smiled. “If you knew me better, you wouldn’t say that. And believe me when I say I have no interest in taking you as a mate.”

“Please,” John looked up, face bright red and wet. “I – I know I hurt your dad, but I can be good, and – and you look after me, even when I’m horrible to you –”

“John,” Mycroft half pushed him away. “That isn’t going to happen. Trust me.”

John was bewildered. “Then… I don’t understand. Why – why do you help me?”

“Because I want to,” Mycroft said. “Because I’ve grown up in a household watching my mother, brother and sister live and grow up as omegas in a household where dominance counts for everything. Not the whole world is like this, and it took me until I went to university to see it. Sherlock is wiser than me – he knows the damage that can be done better than I did at his age.”

“He left me,” John blurted. “He doesn’t want me. Ever since he had that rut thing, he’s not looked at me. He…” he blinked, remembering. “He told me you were right, though. The day he left. About your dad.”

Mycroft nodded. “Sherlock could never have stayed, and he did try to suggest taking you with him. He made me promise to look after you whilst he was away.”

John wiped his face. “But before he left… why didn’t he like me, anymore?”

Mycroft shook his head. “I can’t fully explain his change in attitude, John. You would need to ask him yourself. I will tell you that Sherlock’s rut was nothing out of the ordinary, and he suffered no injury during the rush of hormones.” He helped John to a seat. “Now… what has Siger been doing to you?”

John swallowed. “O – only s…” he couldn’t look Mycroft in the eye. It was a gross thing to own up to, particularly to an alpha. “Scenting my neck.”

Mycroft growled, flashing his teeth for a second. Then passed a hand over his face. “Since September?”

John nodded. “I played a game with some other boys. He didn’t like it.”

“Yes. Siger has never had patience for omegas indulging in sports, or overly masculine activities…” Mycroft smoothed his eyebrows, and John wiped his face again. “I am sorry I didn’t warn you of this. And sorrier that he continued with this unchecked for so long.”

“Eurus said I deserved it,” John said.

Mycroft looked up sharply. “Eurus? Eurus… holds some very strange ideas. And yet, this is not overly her fault. She, too, is a victim of Siger’s attentions. Except now she believes she not only deserves it, she believes she enjoys it.”

John’s mouth dropped open. “She… they…”

“I won’t go into details, John. Not at your age. Now… we need to get you packed up.”

“Packed?” John blinked. “Oh, right…” He was being sent to foster care, then. “Is it the same place as Harry? Or near Harry?”

Mycroft frowned. “Harry? You’re coming with me, John. To London.”

 

*

 

John took the tablet Mycroft offered him, which made him drowsy enough to fall asleep as soon as the car engine started. He woke up when they got to Central London, and checked his seatbelt and his car door as Mycroft navigated the traffic.

“We’re almost there,” Mycroft said, glancing at him in the mirror. “Are you hungry?”

“Yeah…” John looked out the window at the sights he vaguely recognised.

“Have you been to London before?”

“No.”

“I’ll have to do you a tour. And find you a school,” Mycroft sighed. “Perhaps that can wait until after Christmas.”

“Won’t we get into trouble?”

“I can sort it.”

John didn’t bother asking how. He sat back, holding onto the leather of the seat until Mycroft parked up in front of a central garden, surrounded by a crescent of houses that had long-ago been converted into flats.

“Is this it?” John opened the door, and got out, letting blood rush back into his legs.

“Indeed. I’ll get your bags, don’t worry.” Mycroft handed him a set of keys. “It’s the red, and then the yellow. Number 55.”

John took the keys over, and unlocked the locks, propping the door open with a weight as he wandered into Mycroft’s flat. The place smelled of _clean_ , not alpha, and there was a vase of fresh flowers on the coffee table. The place looked barely lived-in.

“Go on in, John,” Mycroft closed the door behind him. “The kitchen is at the back.”

John wandered through, and stopped dead in the kitchen-dining room.

An alpha John recognised, with dark curls and pale skin, stood from his place at the dining table, where a laptop sat, propped open.

“Hello, John.”

“Ah,” Mycroft said, following John in. “I see you’ve made yourself at home.”

Sherlock smiled at John. “Are you alright?”

John looked up at him, wordlessly.

 


	8. Chapter 8

Mycroft cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “I called Sherlock from the car, John, whilst you were asleep. I asked him to meet us here, is that ok?”

John couldn’t answer. He didn’t really know if he was breathing. There were two alphas here, and he was so tired and exhausted that he was essentially defenceless if either or both of them moved for him.

Sherlock’s pale blue eyes flicked from John to Mycroft and back again. “I didn’t mean to startle you, I assumed you knew I’d be here,” he glared at Mycroft. “Don’t you think he’s had enough shocks?”

“I didn’t expect you to be lurking in the kitchen,” Mycroft sighed. He moved towards the kettle, clicking it on. John felt horribly exposed for a moment, then followed Mycroft, standing near the sink as the older brother busied bringing down the teapot.

Sherlock watched him with something like surprise.

Surprise, and sadness.

John suddenly wished he was wearing something other than his bloodied and torn uniform. “Mycroft… can I get changed?”

“Hm? Oh, yes…” he took some milk from the fridge. “I thought you could sleep in the first spare room –”

“I can show you,” Sherlock offered.

John tensed.

Mycroft and Sherlock met eyes. “Sherlock, mind this tea, won’t you?” Mycroft walked past John. “It’s this way.”

John followed Mycroft, not looking up at Sherlock as he passed him, letting the older alpha pick up his bags and show him upstairs to a guest room that was sparse, but neat and clean. It smelled faintly of alpha, as the whole flat did, but moreso of clean, and laundry.

“Not very homely, I’m afraid,” Mycroft put John’s bags on the desk. “But you can always add to it.”

John didn’t bother asking how long he’d be staying. “Thank you.”

“Come back down when you’re changed…” Mycroft hesitated in the doorway. “This door locks. Should you need it to.”

John nodded, and waited until he heard Mycroft’s footsteps reach the hall before shutting the door and locking it. He wobbled over to the bed, and sat on the edge, feeling the firm un-used feel of the mattress.

Another room. In another house.

Not home.

John was tempted to leave the door locked and just climb under the covers and shut his eyes, but before he talked himself into that completely, he kicked off his shoes, and started unbuttoning his school shirt.

Siger’s blood was splattered on it like ink from a flicked paintbrush.

John put the shirt straight into the wastebin under the desk. He didn’t exactly want that back. He changed into a soft jumper over his vest, and pulled on his jeans before adding padded slipper-socks that Harry had given him. They had little red-uniformed soldiers on them, marching like the changing of the guard.

He padded downstairs, and was relieved that the two alphas weren’t in the sitting room, they were in the same positions as before, in the kitchen. John suspected this was on purpose. They were worried about spooking him, like he was a delicate racehorse, or something.

“Thank you,” he said to no one, taking the tea that was left on the side. He leaned against the hidden fridge, and looked at Sherlock again.

Uni had made Sherlock lose a bit of weight, apparently, but he was taller again, unless John wasn’t remembering him properly. He gave John a tiny smile that was probably meant to be reassuring.

“Now,” Mycroft put his china cup down. “There’s not a great deal we can do tonight in terms of anything except sleep, and eat.”

“And talk,” Sherlock added.

“If John wants to..?”

John wished he could climb into his tea and disappear. “There’s nothing to say. Except thanks for letting me stay, Mycroft,” he added.

“There’s plenty to say,” Sherlock said, and John had a feeling the alpha was only getting started. “How long had this been going on, John?”

“It wasn’t my fault,” John said, almost believing it.

“I never said it was.”

“I’ve already told Mycroft,” John said sulkily, not making eye contact.

Sherlock scratched his head, his curls ruffling. “Mycroft isn’t –”

“He rescued me,” John said, eyes still on the tiles. “He knows what I said, ask him.”

“John,” Mycroft said gently, “you don’t have to do this now, but Sherlock is you fiancé-”

“I know what he is,” John said. He turned, and put his mug on the counter-top. “He has to ask because he wasn’t there.”

Sherlock sat up. “John… I couldn’t be there. I… I asked Mycroft to watch you.”

“You asked your brother who’s never in the house to watch me,” John sighed, a headache starting between his eyes.

“I was hardly going to ask Eurus,” Sherlock almost snapped. “John, I never wanted –”

“I know you never wanted this,” John wasn’t sure if he gestured at himself or not. He pushed off the fridge, and started walking. “I’ve got a headache. I’m going to bed.”

“John –” Sherlock reached for him.

John leapt out of his reach, crashing into the wall, and bringing down an ornamental plate, which smashed on the tiles.

Mycroft sighed. “Don’t –”

“I’m sorry,” John skipped over the chunks of porcelain, and ran to the stairs.

“… just let him go,” he heard Mycroft say. “… feel better about things in the morning.”

“...stay here?” Sherlock’s voice.

“… at the moment… a matter of time…”

John didn’t want to hear any more, and closed the door to the hall before going to his room, and firmly locking himself in.

 

*

 

He woke up early, the alpha smell in his nostrils making him panic in the low light before he remembered where he was. He sat up, dragging his hands over his face before checking the time. Just gone six.

John considered snuggling back under the covers, but the scent was making him feel strange, so he forced himself up, and into the en suite bathroom, where it took ages for him to figure out the taps and the shower, but he eventually managed it. Mycroft had guest toiletries, like he was a hotel, so John came out smelling of lemons, but clean.

He paused, hand on the door, after dressing. He had no idea if Sherlock had stayed the night, and he didn’t really fancy running into him if he had. Still, it wasn’t even seven, yet. Sherlock was probably still asleep, or gone altogether.

He decided to risk it, creeping down the stairs and into the deserted living room. The kitchen was empty, too. In more ways than one. Mycroft had teabags, and milk, but nothing else.

“I guess I’ll starve, then,” John sighed, looking in the cupboards and finding a bag of something called _quinoa_.

“Or,” A soft voice said from the doorway, “there is a bakery around the corner?”

John dropped the quinoa, but luckily the bag didn’t burst. “Sherlock.”

The alpha stayed well back, in the doorway. “Do you like croissants?”

John wondered if he could crawl down the plughole and escape. “I… don’t know.” In the Holmes’ Manor, he usually stuck to toast, or Eurus’ sugary cereals.

“Well,” Sherlock picked his coat off the back of a dining chair (John cursed himself for not noticing it), “I’ll fetch a selection. You can make the teas?”

John nodded, picking up the dropped quinoa, but keeping his eyes on Sherlock the entire time.

“Won’t be long.”

“Ok…” John stayed still until he heard the front door slam. Then he found the teapot, and tried to remember how his mum said you made teapot tea, as opposed to teabags in mugs. He boiled the kettle, and rinsed out the pot, warming it, before adding three bags to the bottom – one per person, and one for the pot – and refilling it with fresh boiled water.

The tea had brewed enough to be poured out when Sherlock came back, slamming the door again so John jumped and spilled tea on the surface.

“I think they thought I was hosting some sort of pastry party,” Sherlock said, putting a paper bag on the table. He took off his coat, and came over, searching for a plate.

John realised he’d neither moved, nor replied. “Oh. Er, yeah. Did you… get a lot?”

Sherlock glanced, looking pleased John was speaking. “Enough. Mycroft will certainly finish anything we don’t.”

“Oh, is he in?” John worried about his tea ratios.

“No, he leaves early, but he never says no to cake.” Sherlock plated up the breakfast food, pouring orange juice into a jug and putting butters and jams and marmalade’s he’d presumably bought on the way to the bakery on the table.

John brought the teas over, feeling slightly out-done, but a tiny bit of him (maybe his growing omega side) was pleased Sherlock was feeding him, and doing it properly. “I haven’t put sugar in.”

“That’s ok,” Sherlock didn’t move to take the cup, and sat far enough away so John didn’t have to lean over him to plonk the teapot on the table, either.

It was all to make John feel safe, he realised. He sat down on the opposite side of the round table. “I’m sorry I was rude to you, last night.”

Sherlock smiled. “You don’t have to apologise. I spoke out of turn. I was upset. But that’s not an excuse.”

 _Upset_?

John watched Sherlock take a croissant with almonds and sugar on the top, and copied him. “Why were you upset?”

Sherlock paused, the pastry halfway to his mouth. “A-about you.”

“Me?”

“Yes…” Sherlock lowered the food. “I was worried you were hurt, and upset… about what happened.”

John bit into his pastry and chewed. It was buttery, and delicious, and John decided he was going to have at least three more. “Did you ask Mycroft?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know,” John sipped his tea. “It… it’s just something that happened.”

“It’s made you afraid of me.”

John looked up.

Sherlock looked back, his face a mask of sadness. “You were never afraid of me, before.”

“…you didn’t…” John wanted to reach for one of the chocolate-looking things, but couldn’t seem to make his arms work. “You don’t like me.”

Sherlock sat back as if he’d been slapped. “What?”

“You used to,” John said to a crumb on his plate. “I think. When I first moved in, after Mum and Dad…” he shook his head. “What happened isn’t really about you.”

“It isn’t about me at all,” Sherlock said. “But I need to know what you mean, John. You… you understand why I’m not… all over you?” he looked half-appalled at the idea.

John shrugged.

“It’s because you’re twelve, John,” Sherlock shook his head. “John – you’re a little boy.”

“You don’t have to want to… do that,” John could feel his face igniting, “but you could still talk to me.”

Sherlock took a drink, and replaced his cup carefully. “John, please listen to me. I never stopped wanting to talk to you. But in that house, you’ll know, we were watched. All the time. I had time, before my – my rut – where I could talk to you. But after it hit…” Sherlock went red, and something jolted inside John. “It was clear that my father expected me to become like him, and that anything less would invoke his displeasure. So, I did. I copied his attitude to my mother, and projected it onto you. In doing so, I protected you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“My father is one of those alphas who believes omegas are best when neither seen nor heard. You did a good job of avoiding drawing attention to yourself, John, though sadly it was through grief, and you spending a deal of time in your room. But once you started coming out… Perhaps it was a good timing, with my, er…”

“Rut?” John offered.

“Yes. Once mature, everything I took notice of, he would, too. By keeping you apparently below my notice, you stayed below his notice, too. I slipped up, once. I suggested taking you to university with me. My father took a greater interest in you from then on. It was as though he had been reminded of your existence.”

John didn’t know what to say to that.

Sherlock sighed, and poured a glass of orange, sliding it over to the omega.

“Mycroft said he hurt you.”

Sherlock nodded. “He did.”

 _So we’re the same_ , John thought. He picked up one of the chocolate things and bit into it, finding it was just as nice as it looked. He chewed his way through the rest before speaking again.

“What happens now?”

“With living here, you mean?”

“No, I mean… with… being engaged. And stuff.”

Sherlock blushed again. “It’s a bit complicated, John, but…” he cleared his throat, “if you want out of the arrangement, I’m sure Mycroft can –”

“I never said that,” John said quickly. “It’s just… it’d be nice to know what’s what. I… I’m thirteen, next month. I don’t know how long…” _I don’t know how long I’ve got until I go into heat for the first time_.

“We can talk about it,” Sherlock said, his voice sounding strange. “But first, we need to get you transferred out of my father’s guardianship. Technically, you still live with him.”

_“You’re staying under my roof, you ungrateful little bitch,” Siger spat. “You my omega until Sherlock has you, and then you’ll still be mine, because Sherlock is mine.”_

John’s stomach contracted around the rich food, and he had to look away, at the floor, to stay grounded.

“John?”

John shook his head. “He’s going to come and get me, isn’t he?”

“No,” Sherlock said firmly. “He’s not going to get you. I promise.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the support and comments and kudos! xx

John hoped the rest of the day wouldn’t be awkward, but Sherlock seemed to know not to bother him. The alpha student took out his laptop and started writing an essay, typing quickly as he glanced at his notes every so often. John didn’t have a laptop with him, or any of his school things, so he flicked through the TV channels quietly before picking up some of Mycroft’s books to read.

Sherlock made John order lunch online, and the two of them worked their way through a pizza, Sherlock handling the money, as well as the washing-up. John felt mildly coddled, but it was such a change from being left to his own devices at the manor that he rather enjoyed it. His mum and dad would have looked after him like that. Sherlock was… caring, at least. And he hadn’t tried to grab John again, that was important.

Mycroft arrived home at four, carrying several shopping bags that he dropped in the living room. “For you, John,” he sighed, wiping his brow dramatically. “Clothes, a phone, and a netbook. I’ve made some enquiries about school, but it does look as though you’ve started the holidays early.”

“That’s ok,” John smiled, reaching for the bags. “Thank you, Mycroft. For these things.”

“It’s no bother,” Mycroft shrugged, then looked at Sherlock. “Have you been mooching off my electricity all day?”

“I’m hardly going to leave him on his own, am I?”

Mycroft looked rather nonplussed. “And are you taking up residence here, too?”

“No,” Sherlock looked up. “I have to go back tonight, or I’ll be an unauthorised absence.” He looked over. “I’m sorry, John.”

John felt himself blush. “It’s ok… I know you… have to get back.”

There was an awkward silence.

“Have you heard from Siger, at all?” Mycroft asked Sherlock.

Sherlock shook his head. “Nothing on my phone or email. And your landline hasn’t rung.”

“He will make contact,” Mycroft mused, leaning on the back of Sherlock’s chair. “Just… how.”

“Knowing Father, it will be in the least convenient way possible.”

“Indeed.” Mycroft glanced back at John. “John… until our father makes his move, we should keep you inside. Siger is not without connections, and I fear you could be snatched.”

John nodded. “Ok.”

“Until we hear anything… Let’s at least order dinner. That isn’t junk food,” Mycroft sighed, eyeing the pizza box.

 

*

 

Sherlock left late that night.

John was already in his new pyjamas and dressing down and slippers, feeling very much a little boy as he waved shyly to Sherlock, who raised his arms for a hug before realising John was not going to step into the open embrace.

“Take care,” Sherlock smiled sadly. “I’ll be back at the weekend. And you can text, or email. If you want to, that is… you don’t have to.”

“Ok,” John nodded, wondering if he could let an alpha’s name into his new phone without feeling like they were writing their name on his things. “Um… have a good time.”

“I’ll think about you.”

“Thanks.”

Sherlock looked like he’d like to say more, but picked up his backpack. “Do take care, though. Listen to Mycroft, if you can stand it.”

John had to smile.

And then Sherlock was gone, down to his taxi, and Mycroft was double-locking the door. John felt strange. As if he was letting something painful go, but at the same time it was like ripping off a plaster – there was a wound underneath that was raw and unhealed.

Mycroft looked at him curiously. “Would you like a hot cocoa before bed?”

John nodded.

 

*

 

Mycroft worked from home the next day, temporarily enrolling John in an online school to fill his day with something more productive than television.

John was watching a video on cellular degeneration when the doorbell rang.

Mycroft looked up at the same time, his brows furrowing. He closed his own laptop lid. “John, go into the kitchen.”

John did as he was told, grabbing his things and sneaking into the back room, leaving the door open in order to listen.

Mycroft waited until the bell rang again, then straightened his waistcoat and went to the door, opening it on the chain. “Oh,” John heard him say in surprise. “Gregory. At this hour?”

“This isn’t a social call, Mycroft,” John heard a rougher voice reply. “I came before anyone else picked up the case. You’re – ” the voice lowered. “You’re only bloody wanted for kidnapping.”

“Oh, is that all?” Mycroft sighed.

“I’m serious, Mycroft. This,” there was the sound of paper, “was printed out this morning. Alpha Mycroft Holmes, suspected of kidnapping Omega John Watson. Funny, I remember you saying you weren’t into omegas.”

“Nor am I, Gregory. And I have not kidnapped anyone.”

“So there’s no omega here?”

A pause. “I didn’t say that.”

“Mycroft.”

John realised he hadn’t taken many breaths. If Mycroft invited this stranger in… a stranger who seemed to be a policeman – he said he was on a ‘case’… He could drag John had to the Holmes’ Manor and then John would be… punished.

“…can’t invite you in. He’s very frightened.”

“For god’s sake, Mycroft, if you want me to come back with a warrant –”

“I’d rather erase the case from the system myself, if you give me a few minutes.”

“Mycroft, this isn’t like a speeding ticket, this is an omega – Mycroft, I can smell him on you, in the flat. Let me in.”

A sigh. “Fine. But you sit in the lounge, and you do not leave your chair, and you do not try to touch him, is that clear?”

“Like rules in every aspect of your life, do you?” The front door closed.

 _The man was in the house._ And if he could smell John that acutely, he was most certainly an alpha. Two alphas in the house. And one of them reporting back to Siger Holmes.

John backed into the kitchen, searching for a way out, but the back door was locked, and he had no hope of escaping up the chimney. He was on the wrong side of the room to grab a knife from the cutlery drawer, and oh god the door was opening –

“John, I know you’re scared,” Mycroft came into the kitchen, closing the door to the lounge behind him. “You overheard everything by the door?”

John nodded.

“Gregory Lestrade is –”

“A policeman.”

“…yes. He’s a detective. And a friend. We’re fortunate, really, that he picked up the case. If Siger is accusing me of kidnap, things could become extremely difficult.”

“I can’t go back,” John croaked. “I can’t – I can’t – ”

“You aren’t going back, John –”

“But that policeman –”

“Wants to make sure you’re safe.”

“I am safe!” John half-yelled, knowing the man in the lounge could hear him. “Just leave me alone!”

“John, he needs to see you –”

“No!” John darted to one side, but Mycroft made no attempt to grab him as John skidded under the table, drawing his knees up as he sat, trembling. “Leave me alone!”

Mycroft made no move to get him. “John, no one is going to –”

“I just want to be left alone,” John started to cry, hating his weakness. “I just want…”

 _To be looked after. To be loved. To be somewhere I can call home_.

The kitchen door opened, and John squeaked in fright.

“Mycroft, what the hell is going on?” Lestrade asked. “I can smell fear, and crying, and – where is he?”

“Where’d you expect? Under the table at the thought of seeing you.”

Lestrade let out a sigh, and made to step closer, then stopped. His shiny shoes were scuffed on one edge, and the heel was worn down. He walked a lot. John gripped his own legs tighter, the acrid smell of on-edge alphas filling his nose.

“Mycroft, you can’t just whisk a little boy away. What on earth made you do it?”

“My father was scenting him. Intimately. On a regular basis.”

The news was met with a silence.

John hid his face in his knees, feeling utterly disgusting. He could still feel Siger’s nose on his throat, his hands on his arms and chest and back, in his hair…

“Is that… that’s why you took him?”

“John fought back, the last time. He fought back bravely, braver than any omega I have known. I took him whilst Siger was in hospital. I removed him from a threatening area.”

The shoes shifted, the owner moving their weight. “And what is he to you, then? Your fiancé?”

“Sherlock’s.”

Another silence.

“Sherlock has a fiancé.” It wasn’t a question.

“Arranged for a few years, now. John has lived with us since he was ten.”

“Practically a brother, then?”

“To me, that’s all he has ever been.”

John raised his head, sensing a change on tone in the conversation.

“That’s all this is? You looking after… your little brother?”

Mycroft stopped towards Lestrade. “That’s all. I might be a poor excuse for an alpha, but I can at least protect my family. Even from other members of my family.”

Lestrade moved closer, too. John frowned at the shoes and trousers legs in his view. “You’re no poor excuse for an alpha, Mycroft. You know that.”

“Tell that to –”

“Your family? I like them less and less as the minutes tick by.” There was another shift of bodies, then they moved away from one another. “Now… what’s to be done with this young omega, then?”

“John stays here,” Mycroft said firmly. “He cannot go back, Gregory. Siger would… I dread to think what he would do to him. At best, confine him. At worst… I fear he would bite him.”

Lestrade inhaled sharply. “Mycroft!”

“If you had seen the struggle between them… If John had not cut Siger with his keys, I believe that is what would have happened.”

“It’s true,” John’s little voice came from under the table. “He was going to.”

The legs paused, then Gregory Lestrade knelt down, sitting cross-legged on the tiled floor to look at John. He smiled nicely.

John looked him over. He smelled very alpha, and had greying hair and a bit of fashionable stubble in the same grey as his suit trousers. He had a kind face.

“John, I have to report you as living here, ok? That’s to keep social services off your back. Mycroft is obviously capable of looking after you, and I believe the story you’ve both told me. Now, answer me this: Do you want to press charges against Siger Holmes?”

“What does that mean?” John squeaked out.

“It means,” Lestrade seemed to realise he was talking to a not-quite thirteen-year-old, “do you want to take him to court? So he can be tried and punished?”

“To court?” John frowned. “Would I have to go?”

Greg’s face softened a little. “It depends. Sometimes victims can give their testimony via video call… but if Siger and his lawyers wanted to question your story –”

“I can’t,” John said. “I… I don’t want anyone else to know. I don’t want you to tell anyone.”

“I have to tell some people, John,” Greg said. “To allow you to stay here.”

“But… Who?”

“Social workers, and some of my collegues. But that’s all.”

“They’ll tell more people,” John said miserably.

“They won’t, John, it’s all confidential –”

“But you just said you had to tell people!” John’s tears started again. “Please, please don’t tell anyone!”

“If you want to stay here, John, I need to tell those few people. I can’t say it’s a secret. People need to be sure you’re being kept away from Siger Holmes with good reason.”

John let fat, hot tears drip down his face. But he nodded, anyway. It was pointless to argue any further. They wouldn’t listen to him. He was such a stupid omega. He brought all this on himself. Why didn’t he just let Siger sniff him? Why didn’t he just do as he was told, and stay away from boys and sports? Why was he so _stupid_?

“You’re not stupid,” Mycroft said, joining them on the floor, and John realised he had been speaking out loud. “John, you don’t deserve any of this, I promise you.”

John sobbed, hiding his head again as he started shaking.

“He needs counselling,” Greg said gently.

“He needs stability before that. And a loving home.”

“… is there any chance that Sherlock can –”

“He’s going to come over every weekend.”

“Well,” Greg sighed, getting to his feet, “that’ll have to be enough, won’t it?”

John squeezed his eyes shut.

They thought Sherlock could help him?

All Sherlock had done was leave him.

Again.


	10. Chapter 10

John rolled over in bed, and pressed his new phone to see the time.

03:02

He sighed, and tried to snuggle back under the covers, but knew sleep would be a long time coming.

Detective Inspector Lestrade had eventually persuaded John to come out from under the table, and had taken ‘a statement’ from him, delivered tonelessly as John looked at the kitchen tiles. Mycroft had then written a statement, and Lestrade had told John not to worry, he’d have his place of address corrected in no time.

John had been sick shortly afterward, to Mycroft’s horror as he waited outside the bathroom with a drink and a toothbrush. John came out, red in the face, and asked Mycroft if it was possible to take back what he said.

“John, you mustn’t,” Mycroft bent down to his height. “If you withdraw the allegations now, Siger could say you’re being manipulated, and use that as cause to take you back with him. Do you understand?”

 _Am I being manipulated?_ John thought. _I didn’t want to tell. They made me tell. It was ok when it was all a secret…_

“I’m going to bed,” he said instead.

“It’s four in the after –”

“Goodnight,” he took the glass of water, and went to his bedroom, locking the door before getting under the covers.

John checked his phone again.

03:12

He sighed, sitting up and opening his laptop. He opened the email account he’d set up earlier, and typed in the address selotaped to the wrist-rest.

**[w.s.s.holmes@oxed.ac.uk](mailto:w.s.s.holmes@oxed.ac.uk) **

**Dear Sherlock,**

**I’ve not had a good day. Mycroft’s friend Greg came over and he was a police detective. Mycroft told him what your dad did to me and Greg made me tell him again in a statement so he can do it in court and tell social services I’m in danger. But I can’t sleep and I wish he hadn’t come over, and I want to say it didn’t happen now.**

**I’m sorry to email you when it’s late.**

**John Watson**

 

He pressed ‘send’, and watched the little envelope fly away on the screen.

A reply came in before he closed the browser window.

 

**[j.h.watson@Kmail.com](mailto:j.h.watson@Kmail.com) **

**John,**

**Please don’t retract your statement. There’s every chance a retraction will mean you end up back at the Manor. I know you don’t want that. Gregory Lestrade is a good man – he’s an idiot, but he has very good intentions.**

**Obviously, it’s a very scary thing, and I am so proud of you for speaking to Lestrade, and telling the truth. You are very brave, and I feel very lucky that I know you.**

**Sherlock.**

 

John read the message three times. It made him feel very strange. Sherlock felt lucky to know him? That didn’t make sense. John wasn’t anything special. He was doing nothing but causing trouble for everyone. And what was Sherlock still doing awake?

 

**[w.s.s.holmes@oxed.ac.uk](mailto:w.s.s.holmes@oxed.ac.uk) **

**You should be asleep.**

**John**

 

Instantly:

 

**[j.h.watson@Kmail.com](mailto:j.h.watson@Kmail.com) **

**So should you.**

**SH**

 

**You’ve got school tomorrow.**

**JW**

**Touche.**

**SH**

 

John refreshed his inbox a few times, but it looked as though he’d guilted Sherlock into sleep, so he shut the laptop down, and snuggled back into the bed.

His phone vibrated gently under his pillow. He fished it out and read:

**Are you asleep yet? SH**

He smiled.

**Yes. JW**

**I suspect that to be a lie. SH**

**You got me. JW**

**Go to sleep. SH**

**I’m trying, someone keeps texting me. JW**

**Then I’ll stop. SH**

**So stop! JW**

**I am stopping. SH**

**Shh! JW**

**Ok, this is it now. SH**

**Ok. JW**

**Ok. SH**

**I’m going to sleep now. JW**

**Alright. SH**

**Goodnight. JW**

**Sleep well, my John. SH x**

 

John stared at the last message, feeling his face prickle with heat, before stuffing his phone away, and trying his best to fall asleep before dawn broke.

 

*

 

The texting was the only thing keeping John from going completely stir-crazy over the next few days. Mycroft banned him from leaving the house, and there was only so much time John could spend doing online quizzes or reading or watching TV.

And Sherlock replied every time, no matter how silly John’s messages seemed.

 

**What’re you doing? JW**

**In a biology lecture. SH**

**Is it good? JW**

**No, it’s boring. What are you doing? SH**

**Texting you. JW**

**You really must be bored. SH**

**Getting less bored, now. You should be paying attention, though. JW**

**I’d rather text you. SH**

 

John beamed at the message, then put his phone away, and mentally chided himself. He wasn’t meant to be leading Sherlock on. The last time he’d seen him he’d asked about dissolving their engagement, for goodness’ sake.

But now… John wasn’t really sure he wanted to.

Sherlock had left him, that was true. And he had ignored him and treated him badly back at the Manor.

But there was something… In Mycroft’s house, Sherlock seemed like a different person. Over text, he sounded happy to hear from John. It could all be an act. Unless the Sherlock from before was an act.

Which one was the real one? And which one might bite John, one day?

The thought of Sherlock’s mouth and face and nose and hands so close suddenly made John heave, and he had to brace himself on the wall as he swallowed hard. He drew his shoulders up, and ran his own hands over his exposed skin, as if checking for breaks. There were none, of course. Of course there were none.

But there could have been.

There might still be.

Sherlock could be that close, and sink his teeth into John’s flesh, and do… other things to other parts of him.

John shuddered.

Growing up was the one thing he had no desire to do. Not now, and not ever.

 

*

 

Sherlock kept his promise to come over for the weekend, though.

He arrived on Friday night with a bag and a laptop case, grunting hello to Mycroft before beaming at John, and almost going for a hug before thinking better of it and offering a hand, instead.

John raised his hand, then panicked, and let it drop, knowing he was going stupidly red.

Sherlock pretended not to notice. “You’re not cooking are you, Mycroft?” he turned to ask his brother. “I’ve been living on ramen all week.”

“You’ve eaten five days in a row?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock shrugged. “Miracles do happen.”

“Indeed. And no, I have to have dinner with the PM. I’m leaving you and John to fend for yourselves.”

John tried not to let worry get the better of him. The last time he’d been alone with Sherlock had been fine. “Ok,” he said.

Sherlock nodded. “Leave your credit card, Mycroft.”

Mycroft sighed, and handed it over. “Don’t be ridiculous, will you?”

“Of course not,” Sherlock winked at John, who couldn’t help grinning back.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Perfectly matched.”

John’s smile fell slightly.

Sherlock sighed. “Realise where the line is, big brother.” He picked up his bag, and carried it up to his room.

Perhaps the annoyance stuck with him, because when it came to ordering the Chinese food for dinner, Sherlock called the restaurant and asked for ‘one of each’ before charging it to Mycroft’s card.

“He’s going to be mad,” John said, finding some chopsticks in the cutlery drawer.

“He’s always mad,” Sherlock was suddenly next to him, taking down some serving spoons. John hated himself for flinching, but Sherlock didn’t comment. “It’s been nice. Texting you, I mean.”

“Mm,” John put the chopsticks down. “When do you sleep?”

“Oh, now and then.”

“Right… you always reply, though.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Because I want to.”

John pressed his mouth tight for a moment. “But… last time you were here, you said you didn’t want to… do anything with me. And then you text me.”

“I reply to you. And we’re only texting. Don’t friends text?”

“Yeah, but we can’t just be friends, can we?” John asked.

“I don’t see why not.”

“Because…” John picked the chopsticks up again, and rubbed them in his hands. “Because… you know why. Why not. I’m…”

Sherlock waited for the end of a sentence that never came, before speaking. “John… It is possible for someone to care about you without… wanting you. Your sister does. Mycroft does. I do. I care about you. I want you to be safe, and happy, and I know that you wouldn’t text me at three am if you weren’t lonely. And I hate that that’s what you’ve ended up being. I never wanted you growing up in that house. I never wanted you lonely, or unhappy. The day we met, when you were just ten…” Sherlock closed his eyes, as if it was painful, “I’d been told to expect my future husband, and what I got was a little boy. I realised, then, what sort of family I was trapped in. Eurus had been trying to tell me for years, but I’d never seen it, because I was an alpha son. The golden child. But after they showed you to me… I was disgusted. Not with you. With them.”

“You didn’t know I’d be… living with you, though.”

“No. And I am so sorry you ended up having to. I have never been good with people. But I tried to be kind. Until my… rut.”

John looked up. “You changed. After that.”

Sherlock nodded. “I saw you. That day. When Mycroft and Siger carried me to the car. It was… as thought I was watching myself from the outside. I could see myself – this sweating, feral, snapping beast, and you, this tiny omega boy, frightened by the sight of me. And although you didn’t smell right, I knew that if you had, I would have fought my father and brother off to get to you. I would have… hurt you.”

John gripped the chopsticks so hard his hands hurt.

“In the car, and all the way to the hotel I kept thrashing, and scaring myself thinking about what I wanted from an omega. I’d never felt like that before. I haven’t since.” Sherlock looked at John. “Siger sent for an omega, one he’d chosen for my first rut.”

John felt all the blood in his body drain to his feet. His head felt empty, and he wanted to disappear and catch on fire all at the same time. “Oh.”

Sherlock nodded, breaking their eye contact. “I am sorry.”

John shrugged, putting the trembling chopsticks down. His vision had gone blurry. “You don’t have to be sorry.”

“I do. Because once the haze cleared, I realised what I had lost, and I have never been more ashamed,” Sherlock said softly. “We drove home, and I vowed never to let you see that side of me again. Never to let you know what I was capable of. I was filled with self-loathing, and I projected it outward. I didn’t realise the harm that ignoring you so badly would do. Yes, some of it was to protect you from Siger. But a lot of it… was me being afraid you would learn what I am, beneath this twattish exterior.”

John wondered if he was supposed to feel sad, knowing Sherlock had had sex.

He felt nothing. Like there was a void in him.

He swallowed. “Was he nice?”

“He?”

“The omega.”

Sherlock winced. “She… I don’t know. Rut… you don’t know what you’re doing. Or who you’re with. You don’t care. It’s… awful. You have no control over yourself.” He shook his head. “It was like a nightmare.”

John sniffed. “Right.” He grabbed the spoons and cutlery off the side. “I’ll do the table, then.” He brushed past Sherlock without looking at him, and dumped the utensils on the table-top.

“John.”

“Mm?”

“I am sorry.”

“I know,” he said, spreading the spoons out. “It doesn’t matter.”

“John –”

“I said it doesn’t matter,” John snapped. “It doesn’t. You can have sex with whoever you want. I can’t stop you.”

“But I didn’t _want to_.”

John sighed, looking up as his eyes started to brim. “It – doesn’t – matter –”

“John…” Sherlock’s hands were on John’s shoulders, but John didn’t scream, or run away. “John, I know it’s upsetting, but I need to tell you –”

“Everyone needs to tell,” John blubbed, tears running down his face. “You – you have to tell me that, and – and I have to tell Lestrade about your fucking dad, and – and I don’t want to do it anymore. I don’t – want – want to –” He had turned, and was sobbing into Sherlock’s shirt front, the comforting scent of alpha filling his lungs as he soaked and snotted all over the expensive cotton, and Sherlock stroked his hair. “Why can’t everything just stay a secret?”

Sherlock sighed, his voice breaking. “Because the world isn’t fair. It especially isn’t fair to you, John.”

John nodded, sniffing deeply at Sherlock’s chest, beyond caring how close he was, and what the gesture meant. He didn’t care. He didn’t care Sherlock had had some other omega. He didn’t care.

He did care. He cared so damn much he wanted to die.

“I thought you were going to wait for me,” he suddenly blurted, a fresh wave of tears starting.

“Oh, John,” Sherlock was hugging him properly, now. “I had every intention… I don’t even class what happened as losing my –”

“Stop!” John hid his face. He tried to calm himself, counting to forty heartbeats before Sherlock spoke again.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me, and I won’t. But I’m tell you, John. You have always been special to me. As a person, not just as an omega. As you. And you… you are someone I would never wish my alpha rut upon. You are better than that. You are so much better, and you deserve so much more than what I can offer you, but I…” he lifted John’s chin with a finger. “I am still willing to wait for you. As long as you need me to. I’m not going anywhere.”


	11. Chapter 11

“Siger is contesting your story, John,” Lestrade sighed.

They were all gathered in the living room, John next to Sherlock on the sofa, Mycroft leaning on the mantelpiece, Greg Lestrade sitting nervously in one of the armchairs. It was a couple of days after John’s tearful outburst, and though he didn’t feel any better for it, he felt a fraction closer to Sherlock, who hadn’t made an attempt to touch or hug John more than John had initiated. They had continued to text on and off over the few days apart, but now, with Lestrade delivering bad news, John found himself huddling against the alpha, gripping onto his sleeve. Sherlock patted his hand, gently.

“That is outrageous,” Mycroft snapped at Lestrade. “Though not entirely unexpected. Has he offered an alternative story?”

Lestrade nodded, glancing at John. “Yes…”

“He’s said I wanted it, hasn’t he?” John said.

Lestrade nodded again.

Sherlock swore under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment. Mycroft cracked one of his knuckles, loudly.

“Can we contest back? I’m willing to be a witness for John, I saw what happened.”

“You saw John attack Siger,” Lestrade pointed out. “Can you honestly say what brought it on?”

Mycroft went purple. “How _dare_ you –”

“This is what you’ll be up against,” Lestrade snapped. “They’ll ask you, Mycroft, _how did you know_ it was non-consensual? How do you know John didn’t just go for him? You can’t prove it.”

“I can certainly detail my observations about John’s mood, and discomfort around alpha men, and –”

Sherlock piped up. “They’ll write it off as teenage mood-swings, Mycroft, you know they will. Courts are biased against omegas. John needs more than one witness. Even if you are an alpha, you’re the one they’re accusing of kidnap.”

“Eurus,” John said, remembering. “Eurus knew what was happening. I told her, the first time. I’m sure she saw it happening, too. And – and it was happening to her.”

The alphas all exchanged glances. There was a silence.

“She could testify,” Mycroft said slowly. “If she agreed to it.”

John blinked. “Agreed?”

“You know Eurus,” the oldest alpha sighed. “She has long been under Siger’s influence. She may choose to take his side over yours.”

John looked at his socks, to hide the fact his eyes were starting to get very wet.

Lestrade let out an aggravated sigh. “I’ve gone through the records, and as things stand, it’s surprisingly complicated. John is legally betrothed to Sherlock, making him Sherlock’s property. Sorry, John, that’s how it’s stands in law. But, at the same time, John’s legal _guardian_ , with parental-like status is Siger. And to add more madness into the mixture, John’s next of kin is Harriet Watson – there is no clear path, here.”

Mycroft pursed his lips. “We have to change John’s guardian from Siger to Sherlock.”

“Can’t,” Sherlock said. “I’m not eighteen. That’s why Siger got him in the first place.”

“You’re eighteen just after Christmas, though?” Lestrade checked. “If we start proceedings now, I can’t see us getting in court before January the sixth.”

“But how would that work with this kidnapping case?”

Lestrade sat up. “You’re John’s fiancé, which means you own him. Which makes the strongest case we have for you taking on his guardianship as well. We can change your legal address to here, Mycroft’s house, and keep John living here. We’d have to argue that John was nearing maturity and you have the first right to claim him, but… Most judges would be happy to hand over the guardianship in this instance.”

John listened to all this, digging his fingernails into his palms.

_You’re John’s fiancé, which means you own him…_

_John is legally betrothed to Sherlock, making him Sherlock’s property…_

I am not _property_ , he thought silently.

“Siger can’t know about this,” Sherlock said, making John flinch. “If he realises we’re moving to get hold of John’s guardianship, he could mount a defence for that.”

“Agreed,” Mycroft said. “We must make him believe that we’re contesting the kidnapping case, and that alone. Gregory,” he said, “contact Eurus, and get a statement from her. Don’t rush, and let her say what she wants. It’s a smokescreen. Meanwhile, my legal team can quietly put together the guardianship case. And, hopefully, get it into court first.”

“Right,” Lestrade stood, fastening his jacket. “I’ll get on that, and delay it as much as I can. It’s a week until Christmas, which helps, and then another two weeks until Sherlock turns eighteen. We… we might just do this.”

“I do hope so,” Mycroft nodded, and then looked at John. “John, you’ve been very quiet. Do you want to say anything?”

John cleared his throat. “Just… Just don’t let me go back.”

“We won’t,” Sherlock covered both of John’s small hands in his pale, spidery one, the long fingers gripping over John’s like a vice. “That’s not going to happen, John.”

John looked at the hand over both of his own, and wished he were tiny enough to curl up on the palm and live in Sherlock’s pocket for a while.

“I’ll be in touch,” Lestrade said, as Mycroft showed him out. “Oh, and…” he lowered his voice, though not enough, as Sherlock and John both leaned to see. “Merry Christmas, if I don’t see you before…”

“Thank you,” Mycroft ‘s back was to them at the door, but John could hear the smile in his voice. There was a pause, and John wondered if they were kissing. Then the door opened, and there were louder goodbyes, before the locks were put on, and checked. Twice.

 

*

 

“Are they a couple?” John asked later, when Mycroft had gone out to order Christmas meat, having suddenly realised he was going to be playing host. “Mycroft and Greg?”

Sherlock snorted. “Yes. And… no. They can’t… be a bonded pair. But they… are together. It’s complicated.”

“I thought alphas only liked omegas,” John sealed the Christmas card he’d written to Harry.

Sherlock shook his head. “No, that’s a myth. Alphas can like omegas and betas… but to like another alpha is extremely rare. A lot of people think it’s… strange.”

“Do you?” John stuck a stamp on.

“No stranger than anything else. They’re not hurting anyone… but they can’t publicise it. Lestrade used to be bonded to an omega woman. That bond was broken when she slept with another alpha. It made both of them severely ill… I’ve theorised that this stress on his system has caused him to seek other alphas, but… it is only a theory.”

“And how do you explain Mycroft?”

“No one can explain Mycroft,” Sherlock smiled, and John had to smile, too. “Are you done with your cards?”

“Yep,” John handed them over.

Sherlock flicked through.

“Don’t!” John snatched them back. “Don’t look through them, just put them in the post-box.”

“Alright,” Sherlock placed them on the outgoing pile. “Sorry.” He tapped the pile neatly together. “One going to a secret admirer?”

“No,” John went bright red. “No, it’s just… somewhere.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but didn’t pry further.

In the pile of cards, one envelope was addressed with wobbly writing to:

 

_Mummy and Daddy_

_Wherever you are._

 

*

 

Mycroft dropped a thick envelope in front of John on Christmas Eve. “Early present.”

“Oh?” John put his hot chocolate down, and tore the envelope open. “Is it to do with the case?”

“No, it’s better than that.”

John tipped the papers out, a thick booklet sliding out with the other pages. He caught them, and turned to read the letter on the front.

 

_Dear Master John Watson,_

_We are pleased to offer you a place at Salisbury Academy, beginning in the Spring Term (January 3 rd). Please find attached a list of uniform and supplies requirements. _

_Your designated form is 3O, in an all-omega class. Please be aware that we also have beta and alpha boys attending the school._

_I have enclosed a prospectus for you to familiarise yourself with our buildings and lessons, though please feel free to email me with any questions before term begins – even over Christmas!_

_Best wishes,_

_Mr Peter Brett_

_Head Teacher_

John looked up from the letter at Mycroft’s slightly bemused face. “This is my new school?” He looked at the prospectus. “It looks like Hogwarts.”

Mycroft laughed. “I suppose. It’s a decent private school, has a decent OFSTED… I think you’ll like it. Here,” he took the prospectus and flicked through it, “they have several sports teams, and omegas are not exempt from competing.”

John took the booklet, and saw photos of hockey, rugby and football teams, all with boys of varying heights and statures in their line-ups. “That’s… great…” he frowned.

“Problem?” Mycroft noticed.

John bit his lip. “Um… sports…”

“You like sports, don’t you?”

“I do, but… it’s not… very…” John was blushing, now.

“Very..?”

“Omega-like,” John finished, hating himself.

Mycroft looked at him, for a moment, then pointed at one of the boys in the picture. He looked around seventeen, was short, had longish hair, a cute face, and thin arms and legs. He also carried a hockey stick. “What gender do you suppose this boy is?”

“He’s an omega,” John said, knowing where this was leading. “But –”

“Look at his neck.”

John peered closer at the glossy image. “What am I –”

“There,” Mycroft’s manicured finger tapped. “He’s bonded.”

John stared, just making out the red marks on the boy’s neck. “Oh.”

“So, clearly, playing hockey hasn’t made him less desirable,” Mycroft said softly. “It is only old-fashioned fools like Siger who think like that. I know that a lot of alphas prefer their omegas to be physically fit and active.”

John was blushing, again, but he kept looking at the picture. He wondered if the omega boy’s mate was one of the other members of the team.

 

*

 

“Have you hung your stocking up?” Sherlock handed John a hot chocolate, with marshmallows.

“Har har,” John rolled his eyes. “Mycroft’s house doesn’t have a chimney.”

“It used to,” Mycroft looked sadly at the fireplace, where a gas fire had been installed. A tiny Christmas tree sat in the bay window, it’s multi-coloured lights blinking on and off. Mycroft has bought it in a panic after John pointed out he didn’t have one. There was also a line of tinsel on the mantelpiece, and a box of Christmas crackers on the dining table.

Sherlock sipped his drink, and looked up at where _The Snowman_ was playing on the television. “It feels strange not to be home.”

“Mm,” John agreed. “The first Christmas at the manor… I didn’t like it.”

“Why not?” Sherlock asked.

“It was… formal,” John said softly. “You didn’t open your presents until after dinner.”

Mycroft laughed, and Sherlock smiled. “When should they be opened, then?”

“First thing in the morning,” John said, “whilst you’re still in your pyjamas.”

Sherlock smiled wider, flashing his teeth. “Then… that’s what we’ll do, tomorrow morning.”

“It won’t take long,” John nodded at the tree, with not a single gift under it.

“Santa hasn’t been yet,” Sherlock pointed out, with a gleam in his eyes.

John pulled a face, and sipped his drink again. Eurus had been the one to tell him Santa didn’t exist, his first Christmas at the manor. He’d been so upset he’d hardly spoken all day. Not that anyone noticed.

Mycroft stood, yawning. “I’m going to make a few Christmas phone-calls,” he said. “Try not to stop up too late,” he added.

“Say Merry Christmas to Gregory, for us,” Sherlock said, sweetly. John hid a smile.

“Yes…” Mycroft sighed, then slunk up the stairs.

Sherlock grabbed the remote. “Are you watching this?”

“Not really,” John settled back on the sofa. “Why?”

“Here,” Sherlock flicked through the channels until he reached a black and white film. “This is more like it.”

“Isn’t this a bit old?” John asked, putting his mug down.

“It’s a classic. Haven’t you ever seen _It’s a Wonderful Life_?”

They settled down to watch it, throwing a blanket over their legs as the heating clicked off. John leaned against Sherlock, stealing his warmth as Sherlock put an arm around his shoulders. John tensed, at first, then relaxed, letting Sherlock warm him, and realising that, far from feeling trapped, he felt safe.

The movie played on, and John paid less and less attention, his mind slipping into unconsciousness as he relaxed more than he had in months, eventually falling asleep.

 

*

 

John woke the next morning at the sound of Mycroft singing _Joy To The World_ as he passed his door. He sat up, realising he was in bed, with yesterday’s clothes on. Sherlock must have put him to bed. And not taken his clothes off, which was a plus. John had to smile.

Then smiled wider as he spotted the stocking at the end of his bed, several wrapped gifts sticking out.

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock,” he said softly, lunging for the stocking.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!! NEWS !!!
> 
> A lot of you know already that I write professionally, but today I updated my Tumblr with *something VERY VERY exciting*! You can check it out @ Laiquilasse.tumblr.com, if you wish. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter, too! xxx

Mycroft was emptying the fridge, tipping foil-wrapped leftovers and turkey sandwiches into the bin when John came in, yawning in his new pyjamas. It was New Year’s Eve, and John had slept in, with a mind to stay up for the chimes at midnight.

Sherlock was at the table, typing something on his laptop. He smiled at John when he came in, and John smiled back.

“I do hope you weren’t planning on eating any of this,” Mycroft sighed, emptying a salad drawer. “It’s well past its best.”

“I’ll stick to toast, I think,” John wrinkled his nose and pushed some sliced white down. He thought about making tea, then changed his mind, rescuing a bottle of orange juice from Mycroft’s scouring. “What’s happening today?”

“Well, I’m going to see my people about your guardianship, see what’s happening there,” Mycroft sighed, “since there’s a week until Sherlock’s birthday.”

“Do I have to come?” John popped the toast up and turned it over, clicking it down again so it would brown evenly.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Would you like to?”

John shrugged. “I don’t know… It’d be nice to go out. I’m guessing we’re not going far tonight?”

“Tonight?”

“It’s New Year’s Eve,” John said. The Holmes Brothers exchanged glances. “Don’t you do anything for New Year’s?”

“Not traditionally,” Sherlock said, lowering his laptop lid. “But we could –”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “You know the house could be being watched.”

“Yes, but if we both go with him… There’re fireworks along the Thames, aren’t there?”

“Yes, and the crowds will be gathering already,” Mycroft said. “We’re not standing all day to watch the London Eye be lit up by posh lightbulbs.”

John’s toast popped up, and he grabbed it, opening the butter pack to hide his disappointment.

But Sherlock noticed.

“What about the buildings opposite?” he asked.

“There’s only Whitehall…” Mycroft considered. “And the Banqueting House.”

“Banqueting House?” John asked, through a mouthful of toast.

“It’s just a name… but it might have a decent view of the river,” Mycroft closed the fridge door. “I’ll ask. If you come with me, this afternoon, we can probably have dinner there and wait for midnight.”

“And Sherlock?” John asked, then caught himself going red.

“Of course,” Mycroft pretended not to notice. “If he wants to be –”

“Shut up, Mycroft, I’m coming,” Sherlock snorted, starting to type again. “I’ll come with you to the offices, too. Since I’m going to be John’s guardian, I should probably show my face.”

 

*

 

The last day of December was bitterly cold.

John had been wrapped up like a child, in an enormous coat, gloves, hat and scarf over a jumper that made him walk with his arms stuck out slightly.

“Mycroft, I’m sweating,” he complained.

“Wear it, or carry it,” Mycroft said. “You’ll need it later.” He held the door open for John, and the three of them clambered into the back of one of Mycroft’s sleek black cars, John squashed in the middle between the two alphas.

“I can’t even do my belt,” he sighed.

“Here,” Sherlock reached over him, and clipped him in. “Don’t want you going flying through the windscreen, do we?”

John pulled his hat off. “Can we put the air conditioning on?”

They sped through London, and John stared out of the window the whole way, not speaking, drinking in the sudden freedom of being out the house. The streets looked busy with shoppers after a post-Christmas bargain, there were children laughing, and dogs dragging their owners over to lamp-posts. Trapped in the car, John couldn’t tell whether the people were alphas, betas, or omegas – they just looked like people.

He wished it could always be this way.

The car pulled up, and Sherlock took John’s elbow, helping him out of the car and straight into a lobby with marbled floors, and high ceilings.

“Is this where you work?” John glanced at Mycroft. Sherlock let go of his arm.

“Not every day. Come on,” he led the way to the lifts, and John slowly stripped off his layers, electing to carry his coat and hat and scarf in his arms as they rode up to the sixteenth floor.

“Mycroft usually works in Number Ten,” Sherlock said, his eyes glinting with what John suspected was humour.

“I do not,” Mycroft said, his neck going red.

“Of course. You spend a lot of time tied to the desks at Scotland Yard, too,” Sherlock said back, and Mycroft went redder, though John didn’t understand why. Mycroft _did_ work hard.

“Stop being lewd. We’re here, anyway,” Mycroft stepped out, and John and Sherlock followed, the latter smirking to himself. They were greeted by a receptionist, and then shown into a room with one large table and several chairs, where they were quickly joined by two beta women, who put a lot of files on the table.

“John, Sherlock, this is Tabitha and Poppy,” Mycroft did quick introductions. “They’re establishing the guardianship case.”

“Hello,” the lady with dark brown skin, Tabitha, smiled, and offered a hand to John. “It’s nice to put a face to a name.”

“Ok,” he coughed, not knowing how else to respond.

Poppy smiled kindly, though didn’t go for his hand, and instead indicated he and the others should sit. There was a moment of awkwardness as the two alphas wrestled with the internal surprise at being told what to do by a beta, but they soon got over it, and sat either side of John, as they had in the car.

“Now, Sherlock,” Tabitha looked at the youngest alpha. “We need a statement from you, today, if you can, about why you think you’re a good choice of guardian for John.”

“He’s my fiancé,” Sherlock frowned, puzzled.

“Yes, but that was a relationship arranged with the help of your father,” Tabitha pointed out. “Was that consensual on all sides?”

“Well, I –” Sherlock stopped, and sat back. “I…” he glanced down at John. “It was for me,” he said eventually.

Tabitha looked at John. “And John? Were you consenting to bond with Sherlock?”

John looked at the polished table-top, and didn’t answer.

“Can we take that as a ‘no’?”

“It’s not ‘no’,” John muttered. “It’s just… I wasn’t asked. Doesn’t mean I’d’ve said ‘no’ if I had been asked.”

“And what if you were asked now?”

John dug his fingernails into his jeans, twisting the material so hard it hurt. “You’re not asking, though.”

“No, it’s a hypothetical –”

“But I _am_ engaged,” John snapped. “What does it matter?”

Tabitha looked taken aback, but Poppy was clearly unfazed, as she leaned forward. “It matters, John, because you are a person. You have a choice about where you live. And you don’t have to pick the lesser of two evils. We can arrange a foster carer, if you prefer.”

John saw Sherlock go rigid, beside him.

“He’s not going to foster care.”

“It’s an option we have to consider,” Poppy said.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock spoke over John’s lowered head. “You said this was to arrange _my_ guardianship of John!”

Mycroft’s hands clenched. “Clearly there is more work to be done, here, than I thought.”

John’s stomach suddenly felt very hot.

“We have to assume, as our duty of care,” Poppy went on, “that John is at risk – he’s an orphan, with a sister we cannot consider for fostering him, and he’s come from a potentially abusive home –”

“It wasn’t potentially,” John interrupted. “It was real.”

Poppy rolled her shoulders back. “Then why pursue this, John? Why not just take Siger Holmes to court?”

“Because I just want to _live_ ,” John said, putting his head in his hands. “I just want to live and go to school and play games and grow up. I don’t want all this legal stuff. I just want to go _home_.”

Tabitha cleared her throat. “And where is home, John?”

John looked up. “What?”

“I said: Where is home?”

He looked back at the table. “I don’t know. I…” he took a deep breath, which shook slightly. “I think it… I only feel safe at Mycroft’s. I want to stay there.”

There were some exchanged looks.

“With Mycroft?” Poppy asked.

John frowned. “It’s his house?”

“No, what I mean is… Are you safe _because_ Mycroft is there?”

John could feel murderous thoughts coming from the alphas either side of him as he tried to process the question. “I don’t understand.”

“Are you planning to enter into a bond with Mycroft?”

“No!” John almost shouted, leaning away from Mycroft as though he was on fire. “No way.” He paused. “No offence.”

Everyone laughed, and the mood lifted, a little, though Sherlock’s lips parted only for a moment.

“Ok, I think we can rule that out,” Tabitha laughed again. “And Sherlock? How do you feel about him, John?”

“He’s…” John looked up, and felt himself blush. Sherlock almost smiled.

“You can be honest… Would you like me to leave the room?”

“No, it’s ok,” John closed his eyes for a minute. “I want… to stay engaged to Sherlock. For now.”

“Alright then,” Tabitha made a note. “In that case, let’s get that statement from you, Sherlock. We won’t be too much longer, here.”

 

*

 

“Did you mean it?” Sherlock asked, once the dinner plates were taken away. “What you said, to those lawyers?”

John glanced at the doors, through which Mycroft had gone to use the bathroom. “Which bit?”

“You know which bit,” Sherlock chided gently. “Did you mean it? Or were you simply saying that to avoid difficulties? It’s fine, either way… I don’t expect you to –”

“I meant it,” John said.

Sherlock looked up.

“But I meant… _for now_ , as well. I… I don’t want to not be your fiancé right now, but I’m not thirteen for a few weeks. What happens… anything could happen. To me or you. You might… find someone.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“You might, though,” John insisted. “You’re eighteen next week.”

“John,” Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and John’s stomach did a sort of swooping thing. “John, I promise you, I have never had a boyfriend. Or girlfriend. I am… not interested.”

“Oh,” John sat back. “What does that mean, then?”

“Possibly that everyone I meet is ugly,” Sherlock mocked, “but more likely, I am just not interested. And you know where I stand with you. I don’t _want_ you. Not like an alpha wants an omega. But you’re special to me, and I do care about you. I’d hate to lose you. In any way.”

John smiled.

Mycroft came back in. “There’s five minutes, if you want to get your coats on. Come out onto the balcony.”

They dressed warmly, Sherlock pulling John’s hat on firmly, and knotting his scarf under his chin, so John’s heart sang with the joy of being cared for. He even let Sherlock hold his gloves out before wriggling his fingers into the holes.

“You’re silly,” he giggled.

“Only you get to see me like this,” Sherlock said. “Everyone else thinks I’m a twat.”

“You are, sometimes,” John said. “Like when Lestrade said I was your property. You didn’t correct him.”

Sherlock looked shocked. “Didn’t I?”

John shook his head. “No.”

“I – I’m sorry.” Sherlock put his bare hand to John’s cheek. “I am so sorry, John, I didn’t realise.”

John shrugged, and moved his face away from the touch. “Just… don’t do it again, yeah?”

“Alright,” Sherlock said, and John knew it was a promise.

They went out onto the balcony, and climbed up onto the railings as Big Ben started to chime. Below, crowds of people were counting down to the New Year.

The three of them grinned, listening to the shouts.

TEN

NINE

EIGHT

SEVEN

 

Sherlock took John’s gloved hand in his own.

 

FIVE

FOUR

 

And squeezed it tight.

 

TWO

ONE

 

“ _HAPPY NEW YEAR!”_ the crowd screamed as the bell began to BONG across the city. Mycroft pointed as the first firework shot into the sky.

John turned, and quickly pecked Sherlock on the cheek, making the alpha almost fall off the railing in shock. “Happy New Year,” he said quickly, turning back to the display.

“…yes,” Sherlock said back, his fingers touching the tiny kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As above:
> 
> A lot of you know already that I write professionally, but today I updated my Tumblr with *something VERY VERY exciting*! You can check it out @ Laiquilasse.tumblr.com, if you wish.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, and thank you so much to everyone who had downloaded my ebook. You're all my favourites. xxx

“You look smart,” Sherlock said, as John came into the kitchen in a shirt and tie. “Suits you.”

“Thank you. This place looks so posh I’m surprised I’m not in one of those long coat-jacket things,” John grabbed a slice of toast.

Sherlock laughed, and went back to his laptop as John swigged orange juice from the carton, and adjusted his tie in the mirror.

“There’s a car outside,” Sherlock said, when John paused. “I expect most of the boys will be driven to school, so don’t worry about standing out.”

“I’m not,” said John, although he had been. He pulled his blazer on, the school crest like a brand, marking him as part of this upper-class world, though he had hardly been born for it. He smoothed down the sleeves. “Suppose I should get going…”

Sherlock stood, pushing his chair back. “Are you ok going on your own? I mean – not that I don’t think you can – but if you wanted some company –”

“I’ll be ok,” John picked his bag up, slinging it over one shoulder. “Honestly.”

Sherlock nodded. “I know…” he folded his arms around himself, like a hug. “Have a good first day, then.”

“Ok,” John gave a quick smile, and headed for the door.

 

*

 

Salisbury Academy was an old manor house, set back from the main streets by vast grounds on all sides, and with enough space inside to house boarders as well as day-students like John.

“You’ll be in 8-3,” the Head Teacher, Mr Brett, led John through the corridors. “It’s an all-omega class, and you only have an alpha teacher for P.E. We take great pride in safeguarding our students.”

“Mm-hmm,” John tried to see into the classroom as they passed, but the frosted-glass windows were too high up.

“Your, er, Mycroft… tells me you like sports, John?”

“I do,” John said. “Is it too late to get on any teams?”

“Not at all, the spring teams haven’t been chosen yet, though I’m afraid you’ve missed the boat for football and hockey. You can try next year, though.”

John nodded, hanging back as Mr Brett knocked on a door, and opened it.

Six teenage boys looked up, as did their teacher, a pregnant lady who smiled when she saw John. The boys quickly stood, when they saw who was at the door.

“Sit down, lads,” Mr Brett showed John in. “Thank you for your manners, mind. This is John Watson,” he let John give a small wave and a wry smile, that a couple of the boys returned. “He’s a transfer student, and will hopefully be staying with us until year eleven.”

“Hello, John,” the lady stood, and John realised she was an omega. The bite-mark on her neck was healed, but clearly visible. “Take a seat anywhere you like. I’m Mrs Rivers,” she offered a hand, and John shook it briefly, taking a seat a row back from the front.

“Where you from?” a boy hissed to his right.

“Somerset,” John said softly.

“Ah, right. You moved?”

“Moved to London, yeah,” John said, watching as the teachers exchanged a few words, and then Mr Brett left, with a nod to his students. “Bit of a pain in the arse moving halfway through the year, like.”

“I bet.” The boy offered a hand. “I’m Thomas Yorvik, but everyone calls me Tom.”

John shook the hand. “John.”

“Jake,” a boy from the other side patted his arm.

“I’m Quinn.”

“David.”

“My name’s Peter.”

“Ryan.”

John met them all, and had to smile as he found himself entirely enveloped in the sort of acceptance he hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

 

*

 

“Your grades are all good,” Mrs River said as she looked over John’s file. It was an after-school session to set his targets and assess him for ability groups. “You went to a private primary, then a state secondary, before coming here?”

“There was only a small school in the village,” John said. “It was ok.”

“Still, it’s unusual to flit between,” she ‘oof’ed, and sat up in the chair.

“Are you ok?” John glanced at her round stomach.

“Hm? Oh, yes, just uncomfy,” she smiled, following his eyes. “I’m not about to pop. It’s twins, so I’m not as far on as I look.”

“Oh,” John blushed. “I wasn’t… saying you were.”

“Everyone worries about the pregnant people,” she sighed. “We’re not made of glass. My alpha’s started walking me to the door of the school, can you believe?”

“He must be very protective,” John said.

“He is. This is our third pregnancy, though, so you’d think he’d’ve learnt there’s nothing to worry about,” she flipped the page and started adding in John’s predicted grades. “I think you could do extremely well if you work hard, John. We have an excellent sixth form, if you’re interested in higher education?”

“And omegas can go?” John asked.

“Of course,” she looked up. “The classes aren’t segregated, by then, but omega just take a few days off when… it’s their time of the month,” she blushed, then, and looked back at the paper. “I do hate to see good students drop out at sixteen.”

“Does that happen a lot?”

“Less often than it used to. Times are changing. Omegas aren’t married off in their teens, anymore. Back in my day, it was first heat bondings that were the fashion.”

John’s stomach dropped, and he fought to keep his face impassive.

“That’s how I met my mate,” Mrs Rivers went on, not noticing. “We were engaged before, but I’d never met him. That’s seen as a bit out of sorts, these days.”

“I’m engaged,” John blurted. “I – I have a fiancé.”

Mrs Rivers looked up. “Oh, I see. Have – have you met him?”

“I live with him. Sort of,” John said. “We both live at his brother’s house. It’s… complicated.”

“Doesn’t sound so complex, John,” she smiled gently at him. “Is he a nice man? Boy?”

“He’s… yeah, he’s nice,” John said, his cheeks prickling. “It’s just… yeah. Complicated.”

“Well, if ever you need to talk about it, that’s why I’m here,” Mrs River patted his hand, and the physical contact soothed John more than he expected. “I’m your form teacher, that means I’m in charge of your pastoral care, too. You can tell me anything, John. And I only pass on what I eed to – that is, anything I’d need to keep you safe.”

 _You sound like Greg Lestrade_ , John though, but he nodded. “Thanks, Miss.”

“Any time, John. Now – have you thought about what you’d like to do when you leave school?”

John opened his mouth and was about to say something along the lines of _Nothing, I’ve got to get married and have babies_ , when he stopped himself. This omega was a teacher. A mother, and a teacher. She’d been to university. She had a degree. He closed his mouth, and swallowed, before trying again.

“Yes,” he said, voice low, as if afraid someone might hear. “I – I want to be a doctor.”

Mrs Rivers beamed at him.

 

*

 

The morning of the guardianship court case came the day after Sherlock’s birthday.

Sherlock had spent his special day at university, coming home to find Mycroft had planned a meal out, and John shyly presented him with a cake he’d made after school. The evening had felt horribly stilted, as they all talked louder than necessary, and tried to avoid thinking about the next day. John had the day off from school to attend, and he could barely taste the cake he’d made, though he suspected that was more to do with his cooking than nerves.

Mycroft retired early to his office, leaving Sherlock and John in the living room.

“I hope your day was ok,” John said, after a few beats of silence. “What’s it like being eighteen?”

“Oh, the weight of responsibility is crushing,” Sherlock flashed a grin. “It’s fine. And thank you, for the cake. No one’s ever made me a cake, before.”

“Not even when you were little?” John asked.

Sherlock shook his head. “Mummy used to buy cakes from the bakery. She was never a good cook, that’s why we had staff. I didn’t realise cake that was handmade could be nice, until I was older, and went to a few birthday parties…” he picked at a thread on a cushion. “Not that we went to many. We weren’t exactly popular children.”

John looked over at him – at his fiancé, at the alpha who might gain custody of him. “You didn’t seem lonely, when I first met you.”

Sherlock gave a sad sort of smile. “I didn’t really know what lonely way, until I felt something else.”

John’s chest pained, for a moment. “Do you miss living at home?”

“This is home,” Sherlock said, without missing a beat. “The manor was just a place to live.”

The morning after, they were all in the car, being driven to court.

John was wearing clothes Mycroft had chosen for him – not a suit “That’ll make you look older, we need to play up your vulnerability”, but a pair of chinos, a pale pink t-shirt and a pastel blue shirt on the top, open slightly to show off the pink beneath.

“He looks like an ice cream,” Sherlock snapped as they got out. “What on earth were you thinking?”

“That the judge will be looking to see a little boy of twelve who needs looking after, not a pre-teen lad who took keys to his guardian’s face,” Mycroft hissed. “This is all a show, Sherlock. Play your part, or you might just see John going home with Siger, this afternoon.”

John suddenly needed the bathroom, and had to dive into the nearest one, coming out feeling very shaky.

Sherlock handed him a bottle of water. “Are you alright?”

John shook his head.

“Mycroft was over-exaggerating. You’re coming home with us. I promise.”

John just twisted the plastic bottle in his hands.

The courtroom was large – circular benches that faced a high platform, and several seats alongside. There was no jury – this wasn’t a criminal case – but there was a seat and table to the right, which was empty.

“Sit here, John,” Tabitha, the lady from Mycroft’s work indicated a chair for him. She was wearing robes, and a tiny wig on her hair that made her look a bit funny. Sherlock, here. Mycroft, you’ll have to sit in the stands until I call you to witness.”

“Good luck,” Mycroft patted John’s shoulder. “It’ll be over before you know it.”

John could only nod as he sat down hard, Sherlock beside him.

There was a buzz of noise behind them as a few people took seats to watch the proceedings, but John kept his eyes on the table.

The judge walked in, and greeted Tabitha warmly, shaking her hand, though not speaking to Sherlock or John – John suspected she wasn’t allowed to – before vanishing again.

Then, it was as though the volume of the buzzing had been turned up.

Sherlock tensed, and John saw his fingers grab the edges of his chair as he looked around.

John should have stayed facing forwards, but he couldn’t.

He looked.

He looked at Siger Holmes, his once faded-handsome face now disfigured with scars. An ugly line pulled his upper lip, giving him a sneer than was accentuated by the angry red marks across his eyes.

 _I did that,_ John realised, and had to swallow hard, feeling very sick.

The judge banged her gavel, then, and the noise died down as Siger and his solicitor took their seats. “Order, if you please.” She put some reading glasses on her nose. “The case this morning is to decide the future guardianship of Omega John Hamish Watson. Alpha William Sherlock Scott Holmes is bringing the case, with Alpha Siger Augustus Mycroft Holmes in defence.”

John looked up at Sherlock. “William?” he whispered.

Sherlock smiled, just a pinch.

“Let’s have the case from the younger Holmes,” the judge looked at Tabitha.

“Thank you, Justice Graves. We wish for the guardianship of John to be transferred to Sherlock. Sherlock is a legal, matured, adult, and John’s fiancé. We see this as the logical, and safest thing for John’s wellbeing.”

The judge nodded. “And a word from the defence?”

The male solicitor representing Siger stood. “We wish to retain John’s guardianship, as Sherlock is still in full-time education, and John was forcibly removed from Siger’s home, without his permission.”

“Without his permission?” The judge raised an eyebrow. “Interesting phrase to use. Can you expand on that?”

“We are preparing to bring an accusation of kidnap against Mycroft Holmes,” the solicitor said. “However, that will depend upon the outcome of this hearing, Madam Justice.”

“I see. And what is your basis for this accusation of kidnap?”

“John was taken from Holmes Manor.”

“Against his will?”

The solicitor faltered, and looked at his notes.

The judge turned to Tabitha. “Can you respond to this?”

“Gladly, Madam Justice. This was no kidnap, but a rescue. John was under threat, and Mycroft rescued him from that.”

“Define ‘threat’?”

Tabitha inhaled sharply, and John screwed his hands into fists, knowing that it was all about to spill out. There were reporters watching the hearing, and they’d print this in the paper, and then everyone would know. They’d all know John let another alpha scent him for _months_ , let him touch his neck and hair and back and arms and skin, let him taste the smell of him for _ages_ … John was about to be dirtied in public.

Sherlock took his hand, wrapping his fingers over his closed fist.

“Siger was regularly scenting John, from the age of twelve,” Tabitha said firmly. “In full knowledge that John was not mature, and was engaged to his own son.”

“He was never refused,” the male solicitor shot back. “The omega never backed off.”

“And omegas often do not,” Tabitha responded. “The report and conviction rates for sexual assault on omegas is appalling. John was, and is, a child. How could he be expected to fight off a fully-grown alpha?”

Justice Graves raised a hand, and the two solicitors shut up. “What evidence is there of this non-consensual scenting and touch?”

“We have testimony from John, and from Mycroft Holmes,” Tabitha said. “Plus, the wounds inflicted on Siger by John, as he finally retaliated.”

“Yes,” Justice Graves looked at the alpha’s face. “This is rather nasty. How was it done?”

“With the set of house keys John had in his hand as the attack began.”

Justice Graves nodded. “I see. But you have no other witnesses?”

“Our only other witness, Eurus Althea Holmes, has refused to testify,” Tabitha admitted.

John felt Sherlock squeeze his hand. He wanted to turn and curl into Sherlock’s chest, this did not seem to be going well.

Justice Graves checked a paper in front of her. “I would ask John to take the stand and give me a word on who he would like to live with, at this point,” she said, “but I think the evidence speaks for itself,” she looked down at John’s hand in Sherlock’s.

John felt his face catch fire, but he didn’t take his hand away.

Sherlock looked at him, and John saw he was blushing, too.

Justice Graves sniffed. “I understand that Sherlock is still at university. Now, it says here that the two of you are lodging with Mycroft Holmes, is that correct?”

They both nodded.

“And John, your statement to Tabitha says you feel safe there. Does that still stand?”

“Yes, Miss. Madam,” John said, his voice a tiny mouse-squeak.

“Then, it seems to me that the matter is settled,” Justice Graves picked up a pen, and signed something. “Legal custody of Omega John Hamish Watson is hereby passed to William Sherlock Scott Holmes, until John is eighteen, or otherwise legally emancipated.” She banged her gavel. “Good morning.”

 

*

 

“What will happen to Eurus?” John asked, in the car on the way back.

The two Holmes brother looked at him in surprise – his question the last thing they expected.

“I don’t know,” Mycroft admitted. “Why?”

“Because she’s the only one Siger will go for, now,” John said, looking out of the window. “She’s… on her own.”

“She’s chosen to be,” Mycroft said.

“No, she hasn’t,” Sherlock argued. “She’s been abused into thinking it’s her choice. She’s never had a choice.” He sighed. “We can’t leave her there.”

“And neither can we get her out without her consent.”

John touched the spot where his breath had misted up the window. “I’ll get her out, one day.”

Sherlock smiled, John could see it in the glass. “I believe you will.”

The car turned, taking the road home.

 


	14. Chapter 14

The next two years passed in a blur.

John turned thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, and with each birthday left a little bit of the boy he was behind him. Gradually, the nightmares of being grabbed from behind and scented without his consent became less frequent. As time went by, he stopped flinching every time he was spoken to by an alpha without expecting it. And now in a school where the classes were small, and he had plenty of attention, John started to excel in his classes.

But he still kept his desire to become a doctor secret from everyone except Mrs Rivers, who had her set of twins, and promptly became pregnant with another baby. John was slightly squicked out at the speed at which his Form Tutor was producing children, but he was comforted by the fact that she continued to teach, and was very good at it.

When John was fourteen, Ryan from his class took a sudden week off, and when he came back was moody and sulky until Tom talked to him, and found out Ryan was the first in their omega class to go into heat. The news caused ripples of anxiety to go through the other boys, and for weeks afterwards they were all a mess checking themselves for signs of puberty, with Tom winding himself up into a frenzy after developing a fever that turned out to be the start of a difficult cold, rather than anything else.

John wasn’t exempt from the nerves. He gave himself a good check-over in the shower every day, and one night when he woke up in a state he was unused to, nearly squealed as he checked nothing else had happened to him.

The panics soon wore off, though, and Ryan came out of his sulky shell, taking four days off a month from then on, so routine it became boring.

John joined the running team at school, still nervous about playing a sport that was too physical, and he found that he was actually very good at running short distances at speed. To the extent that the coach collared him after practice, one day.

“John,” he said, “have you ever played rugby?”

“Rugby?” John squeaked, looking up at the frankly enormous alpha teacher. “Um, I haven’t –”

“We need a new fly-half,” the coach boomed at him. “And you might be just what we’re after.”

“But aren’t I am bit… small?” John blushed.

“Well, you can’t be tackled if you don’t have the ball, technically,” the coach shrugged. “You’ll just have to run like hell, and pass it when they’re on your heels.”

Sherlock had, predictably, choked on his tea when John walked into the living room in his rugby kit to break the news. Mycroft had dropped his éclair onto his newspaper.

“Rugby?” Sherlock managed, after a moment.

“I’m fly-half,” John said shyly, twisting his fingers together. “My job is to run, basically.”

Mycroft looked sadly at his éclair, then set his paper down on the coffee table. “John, as much as I understand your need to participate in team activities, I have some reservations about this particular… sport.”

John’s face fell. “Oh.” He suddenly felt very stupid, standing in shorts and knee-length socks.

Sherlock huffed an annoyed breath. “Mycroft, what century do you live in? John’s only going to be playing touch-Rugby.”

“No,” John said. “No, it’s full-on. Real rugby.”

Sherlock’s mouth opened, then closed again.

Mycroft rubbed his chin. “John, if you’re doing this to prove something –”

“I’m doing it because I’m good at it,” John said, frowning. “I’m really good at running, and I’ll be a great fly-half. I don’t need you to approve of it.”

Sherlock went red. “John, I’m sorry, you’re right, this is… your decision.” He smiled. “Sorry, I shouldn’t try and tell you what to do.”

John scratched the back of his head. “Yeah, well… There’s practice Monday, Wednesday, Friday, so… if you wanted to make sure I’d not been flattened, you could meet me, since I’ll be coming out late.” He raised his eyebrows. “If you wanted.”

Sherlock smiled, just a shade. “That might be nice.”

And so, John found himself as the only omega on the rugby team, half the width of the other boys, but equally as respected as soon as they saw how fast he was. John was easy to lift to catch throw-ins, and besides he wasn’t a troublemaker, and he could, after a few weeks, keep up with the banter of the other lads.

And Sherlock collected him every Friday, and they walked back to Mycroft’s together, John in his kit, and Sherlock carrying his schoolbags, the two of them enjoying the Mycroft-and-school-free time to take the long way home, and talk about nothing and everything.

“I like this,” John said, one day. “Just us.”

“Me, too,” Sherlock smiled.

When John hit fifteen, there was another omega heat at school. Quinn came in after the weekend looking as happy as a clam, beaming from ear to ear as he sported a very red and angry-looking bite-mark on his neck.

“Jesus, Quinn!” Ryan went grey at the sight of it. “Are – are you bonded, now?”

“Yeah,” he grinned, sitting at his desk. “This weekend. We’re going on honeymoon in the Easter holidays.”

“What? Who’s your alpha?” John gawped.

“Max Penney in Year Thirteen,” Quinn blushed. Everyone gasped. “I know, I fancied him for ages, as well.”

“How? Were you engaged?” John asked. He played rugby with Max.

“No, it was kind of just lucky,” Quinn shrugged. “I was biking back from my painting class when I got… sick,” he went red, “and he was out for a run at the time. He came across me, and walked me home, because I was… still ok, at that point, but then… he never left my house,” Quinn smiled. “My Dad’s seriously angry.”

“Why?”

“He wanted me to meet someone from his work,” Quinn sneered. “Lucky escape for me.”

There were murmurs of ascent, and Quinn started telling everyone his plans for moving into Max’s parents’ house over the next few days, and how he hoped he was already pregnant.

John looked back at his notepad, and drew a scribble, trying not to concentrate too hard on Quinn’s story.

“You ok, man?” Ryan nudged him.

“Yeah,” John nodded. “You?”

“I’ve been better,” Ryan admitted. “Don’t get me wrong, yeah, I’m happy for Quinn, but don’t you think he seems a bit… young?”

“Yes,” John said quickly. “I know that once he’s had a heat he’s legal, but still…” he put his pen down. “I live with my fiancé. If it happens to me now… I’ve got nowhere else to go, man.”

“Sorry,” Ryan said. “I have a fiancé, but he’s younger than me. Mum wants me to go on scent blockers. But… you know. I like a few guys at school, and… I don’t know. Seems like Quinn got the happy ending, even if he is fifteen.”

John bit his lip.

He thought about what it would be like to go into heat with Sherlock there.

And felt… ok about it.

 

*

 

Peter was the next in their class to mature, choosing a Tuesday morning to suddenly develop a fever, and having to be dragged out of class by his Beta parents who looked somewhere between proud and embarrassed. He came back a few days later on scent blockers and with a new curfew that meant he had to quit the chess club.

Quinn stayed at school until he was four months pregnant, and then left to continue his studies online, his mate giving up his university plans to get a job to support his new family.

And on the first weekend in June, John woke up in a pit of dread.

“Uh,” he clicked his tongue. “Uh, my head.” He felt dehydrated, and gross, and sweaty, like he was ill. He sat up and scrubbed his face with both hands.

Then realised.

“Oh…” he touched his face again, gently. “Oh, no…” he grabbed the thermometer he kept on the bedside table, and jammed it under his arm. “Shit,” he sat until it beeped.

It flashed red.

“Oh, fuck,” John dropped the thermometer. “No, no, no, no, no…” He staggered up and out of bed, the covers falling to the floor. “Ok. Ok, fuck. Shit.”

He shut his eyes, and thought for a moment.

Saturday morning. Sherlock was at a lecture. Mycroft was in. This was bad.

“Oh god,” John gripped the wall as a cramp took hold of his insides. He braced himself for wetness, but nothing came. “Uh… ow!”

“John?” there was a polite knock on the door.

“Go away!” John shouted.

“What – is everything ok?” Mycroft’s concerned voice came through the woodwork.

“I’m… uh!” John leaned over again, his insides twisting.

“John?!”

“Mycroft, fuck off!” John yelled. Then gasped as heat and cold combined ran over his skin. He let go of the wall, and ran into his bathroom, locking the door.

 

*

 

Mycroft looked up as John limped down the stairs an hour later.

“Do you need to go to the doctor?” Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

“I think I just need fluids,” John winced, pulling his blanket around himself. “I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

“It’s quite alright.”

John ran himself a glass of water. “I thought it was… you know.”

“Ah,” Mycroft looked back at his laptop. “Yes, that does explain the rudeness.”

John carried his water back through the lounge. “I’d avoid that chicken salad in the fridge, just FYI.”

“Duly noted,” Mycroft sighed, as John slowly climbed the stairs, collapsing back into bed as soon as he got there.

John woke up a few hours later as Sherlock put a fresh glass by his bed. “Oh…” he pulled the covers over his head.

“How you feeling?” Sherlock said, touching John’s cheek with the back of his hand. “You’re still really warm.”

“I feel sick,” John said. “Did Mycroft call you?”

“He did. He told me you told him to fuck off.”

“Yeah.”

“Good for you,” Sherlock smiled, and John pushed the covers back down.

“I thought I was in heat,” John admitted, opening his eyes. “I got scared.”

Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed.

“I know what that sounds like,” John sighed, reaching for his glass. Sherlock helped him, and John noticed he’d put a straw in, so he wouldn’t have to sit up. “I know I shouldn’t feel… but I am. I…” he sniffed, eyes welling up out of control. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to be sorry,” Sherlock said softly. “I… I have no idea what to say to make you feel better. I have no idea how you feel. I can only promise to listen to you.”

“I don’t know what’s going to happen,” John whispered.

Sherlock sat still for a moment, then reached over and took his hand.

John squeezed it.

“Nothing’s going to happen that you don’t want,” Sherlock said.

“Things change when omegas are in heat,” John breathed.

“I know, but…” Sherlock took a deep breath, “I’m going to try. My hardest. If you… If you don’t want…”

“I don’t know what I want right now,” John closed his eyes. “My stomach is a whirlpool.”

“Ok,” Sherlock laughed. “We can talk about it. When you’re ready.”

“Mm,” John squeezed Sherlock’s hand, and let him go. “I’m tired.”

“I’ll bring you some toast in a bit,” Sherlock promised, standing up. “Try and get some rest.”

John listened to him head for the door. “Bye then?”

“Sorry?”

John opened one eye.

Sherlock frowned, and then walked back over, and hesitantly leaned down, and pecked a kiss on John’s forehead. “Better?”

“Better,” John said, closing his eyes again.


	15. Chapter 15

“Oh, my god,” John sighed, as he opened the kitchen door. “Really?”

“You’re welcome,” Sherlock beamed, as John took in the sight of at least twenty Easter Eggs. “I wasn’t sure which chocolate you liked best.”

“That is the worst excuse ever,” John came over, picking up one of the boxes. “But thank you. I’ll be set for chocolate until next Easter, I think.”

“Don’t be so sure, Mycroft does live here, after all.”

John laughed, and sat down to open the first egg. “Now I feel bad for not getting you anything.”

“I don’t need anything,” Sherlock poured him a cup of tea. “I like treating you.”

John looked up from unwrapping his egg. “I… like you treating me,” he admitted, blushing.

There was a moment of soft silence.

Sherlock smiled, then, and the smile went straight to John’s heart, and made it feel strange. “Like I said… you’re welcome, John.”

John broke his egg in half, and pushed one of the sides across the table.

 

*

 

They spent most of the Easter holiday together.

Sherlock was in his final year at Uni, but had already written his dissertation, and so had plenty of free time to spend with John in his two weeks off.

“It feels weird to be a tourist,” John said as they got the tube into central London. “Even going out just us two is weird.”

“It is a bit,” Sherlock admitted, swaying as he held onto the overhead bar. “But I don’t know about you – I’m sick of that house.”

“It is a bit small,” John said.

“I was thinking of getting a flat, once I’ve graduated,” Sherlock said. “Somewhere central. I want to do a post-grad, but I wouldn’t have to go in every day for that.” The train pulled into a station, braking sharply, making John stumble into Sherlock. “Oof. You ok?”

“Yeah, sorry,” John tried to reach the bar. His fingertips just brushed it. “Um…”

Sherlock held a hand out. “If you like?”

John took it as the train set off again, letting his smaller hand be swamped by Sherlock’s long fingers, and held safe. Warmth flooded up his arm and to his chest, and he looked up as Sherlock looked down. And for a moment, they just took one another in, in their own tiny space on the crowded train, chest to chest, their fingers entwined.

They got off at South Kensington, and walked to the museums, spending the day wandering in and out of them in turn. They didn’t really read any of the exhibit cards, they just walked, and occasionally stopped to stare, and now and then glanced at one another as they caught sight of their reflections in a polished surface. John tried to keep a snapshot in his head of how they looked together. Tell Sherlock, short John, dark and blond, pale and tanned, alpha and omega.

They suited one another.

With a jolt, John realised he was happy. He hadn’t felt like that in a long time.

The sun lingered, so they caught a cab to the south bank, and grabbed some pizza from a kiosk claiming to be selling ‘handmade and organic’ food. Sherlock looked doubtfully at it, but had to agree it was delicious, as they sat on one of the stone benches and watcher the river-taxis and yachts storm up and down the water.

John lowered his slice as a boat blared its horn in the distance. “Sherlock?”

“Mm?”

“I’ve… had a really nice day,” he looked up at the alpha. “Thank you.”

“That’s alright,” Sherlock gave a sideways, sad sort of smile. “We could have done something more special –”

“It was,” John said. “It was, really.”

Sherlock looked back at the river. “I’m glad. I… I want to do what I can to make the past few years up to you. I know… when I left, it wasn’t easy. And then it was awful. You – you’ve been so brave, John. And so resilient. And you’ve shown me what sort of a person I want to be. And…” he took John’s pizza out of his hand, and gently held his fingers. “And, John… I know things haven’t been easy. And I know that without… my family… we never would have met. But I’m so glad we did. I know that we still do not know one another as well as we ought, but I so want to know you. Everything there is to know. And…”

John swallowed hard, his throat hurting.

“And, if I met you now, you would still be the person – the man, I mean – the one I… want to be with. As a mate,” Sherlock finished, blushing furiously. “All – all that I am, John Watson, I offer to you.”

John put his hand to his mouth. The words were old-fashioned. Traditional.

A proposal.

He was shaking so hard he had to grip Sherlock’s hand to stop from falling off the bench.

“All that – that I have,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, “I will share with you.”

“Oh,” Sherlock’s voice broke, and he wrapped John in an embrace. His arms were like a warm cage, that was a comfort, rather than a trap, and John clung to the front of Sherlock’s coat, pressing his face into the fabric to hide his tears.

“I promise to take care of you, John,” Sherlock said, as he kissed John on the top of his head.

John couldn’t answer. He didn’t know how to, quite yet. Instead, he gripped Sherlock’s coat harder.

They stayed beside the river until it got cold, and they walked hand in hand back to Waterloo.

 

*

 

There was no ceremony to mark their official coupledom, and almost nothing changed, except a few walls began to crumble.

They now walked hand-in-hand back from rugby on a Friday. And John accepted kisses on the head from Sherlock, though they hadn’t come close to a kiss on the mouth, yet. That still felt far too intimate. Sherlock was courting John very gently, and John was grateful. Though there was no telling how long they had before John matured, Sherlock was behaving as though they had all the time in the world. And that felt just perfect.

Sherlock gave John a plant for his room – not flowers, he explained, as they would die. John put it on his windowsill and stared at it for a long time. Sherlock also gave John several folio editions of his favourite books from childhood – expensive gifts were a primal thing. They showed the omega that the alpha could provide for them and their future children.

John flicked through the books, and for the first time felt oddly sick. He could one day be reading these stories to his children. His and Sherlock’s. He closed the book with a thump, shuddering. They were a long way off doing anything like that. Sherlock hadn’t moved to touch John below the ears, and John almost hoped he never would. The ghost-touch of Siger Holmes had never quite gone away.

Sherlock’s studies came to an end in June, and he officially moved out of student halls (though he had rarely been there at all) and into Mycroft’s house, which made a weight of anxiety lift from John’s shoulders. They spent that first night watching a DVD in Sherlock’s bedroom, propped up by the mountain of pillows he insisted on keeping on the bed. John fell asleep cocooned in alpha scent, and when he woke up, he was curled into Sherlock’s bed, and Sherlock had spent the night on the sofa.

It was touches like those that made John think he might just fall in love with Sherlock.

 

*

 

The last week of school arrived.

John clunked his shower on, and stepped under the water, scrubbing sleep out of his eyes. One more week, and then he had seven weeks off. Seven weeks with Sherlock. They had a plan to take the Eurostar to France, and see where their feet took them. Mycroft wanted them to have a more concrete plan, but they disagreed. John had giggled at the annoyed look on Mycroft’s face, and Sherlock had promised to at least stick to approved city tours.

John turned his shower off, and went back into his room, hunting for clean bits of uniform.

Except he never found any.

He was searching in a drawer when he stopped dead, a rush of fire burning over his skin, from his face, down, pooling in his stomach, making his legs shake.

He slowly closed the drawer, and took a deep breath.

Another wave of warmth came over him, this time less burning, but lingering, making him catch his breath.

“Oh…” he wanted to drop his towel, to check, but he daren’t. This wasn’t stomach flu. This was change.

John sat down heavily in his desk chair, his shaking legs giving way. He felt sick, with nerves and with something else. His body was running some program he didn’t have any control over, and it was _happening_.

“Ah!” he suddenly flinched as the hot feeling came again, making him arch his back, grab the desk for support. “Ow. God, ow…” he shook his head, trying to stop tears from coming, trying to stop his panicked breath coming in little gasps.

Somehow, he managed to stand, and to yank his pyjamas back on, and to start running a bath. Baths help with cramps, he remembered Ryan, the boy in his class, saying. He turned on the taps, and looked at himself in the mirror.

Flushed, pink-cheeks, eyes blown wide.

“Ow!” he cried out, gripping the sink as his insides convulsed again, this time with a trickle of something. “Oh…” he hardly knew what to do with himself.

And then the banging at the door started.

“John? John, I know you’re in there, I heard you shout.”

Mycroft. But that wasn’t Mycroft’s usual voice.

John inched back into his room, and picked up a cricket bat. “Mycroft, you – you have to leave,” he said as firmly as he could manage.

“Leave? I… I can’t, John, you…”

“Mycroft, think – think about Greg,” John tried, staying still. “You have to go. Go… out. Anywhere.”

The banging resumed. “John, let me in. John, I can help you, I – I promise not to hurt you…”

The alpha’s voice made John moan under his breath, his treacherous omega instincts latching onto what they saw as a solution to the current situation.

Mycroft heard it. “John! John, please. Please, you smell so… ripe.”

John snarled. His first omega snarl, high-pitched and furious, but it made the banging stop. “Go away!” he shouted.

There was a heartbeat of silence.

Then the door flew open, the doorframe splintering, hinges breaking in two, the flimsy lock no match for an alpha’s strength as Mycroft broke it down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhanger!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe this fic has crossed ten thousand views! *crying emoji* I'm so, so grateful for all the reads, comments and kudos you guys have left, you are all the best readers in the world, and I am so, so grateful to you all. xxxx

The alpha that broke the door down didn’t sound like Mycroft. Didn’t look like him, either, with his shirt sleeves rolled up, hair a mess, and eyes blazing at the sight of John.

Which was why John had no second thoughts about raising the cricket bat.

“Mycroft, I - I fucking mean it,” John snarled, trying not to inhale, knowing the scent of aroused and angry alpha was in danger of flooding his brain. Luckily, fear was more potent than his new omega heat, at that moment. “Get the fuck out of my room.”

“John,” Mycroft raised a hand. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to take care of you, I swear it. You need me, I can smell it. You smell so good…” he stepped forward.

“Stay away from me,” John bared his teeth. “I don’t want you – listen to me! I don’t want you.”

“You do,” Mycroft insisted. “You’re already getting wet, I can help you through that, I can prepare you for my knot. It should be mine, John. You need an alpha, and it should be me. You’ve never had a knot, and I could fill you so much you’d-”

John swung the bat.

He cracked Mycroft on the side of the head, sending the alpha staggering between the desk and the bed, sending him halfway to the floor. “I said get out!”

Mycroft got up, swiping for the bat and missing. “You’re mine!”

John swung it again. He wasn’t like other omegas – he’d spent two years on a rugby pitch getting tackled into the mud by alphas, running around the track, eating well, and for his short frame, John was broad. He was muscular, and his arms were strong. And when he swung the bat, he did it with force.

He got Mycroft on the temple, this time.

Mycroft fell to the floor in a heap.

“Get the _fuck_ out!” John kicked him in the ribs, barefooted but used to kicking rugby balls, and _hard._ “Out! Get out!”

Mycroft’s face changed, and for a second John read deepest regret in his eyes. “John –”

“Out!”

Mycroft stood, and half-ran from the room, leaving the broken door in his wake. John could hear him on the phone as he stumbled down the stairs – calling Sherlock. Calling Greg? No, calling Sherlock. He had to be

_Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock_

John held back a groan until he heard the front door slam. And then he doubled-over, wailing in agony as his insides convulsed, and a gush of slick ran down his legs, soaking his pyjama bottoms, and making him sob in disgrace.

“Oh no…” he dropped the cricket bat at last, and limped into the bathroom, not even bothering to strip off his trousers as he climbed into the bath, huddling in the water in his pyjamas, the material sticking to him as cramps and aches overtook his pelvis, his cervix complaining bitterly about opening for the first time.

Because he could get pregnant, now.

John let out a sob, and stuck his head under the water, for a second, raising it in a panic. He wasn’t on birth control. Sherlock would come, and then he’d be pregnant… John didn’t want to be pregnant, he was still at school…

But the mental image of being pregnant was surprisingly comforting. John imagined himself all round and soft, full of Sherlock’s babies, his alpha’s hands on his taut skin, his kiss at his bond-bite.

No! John slapped himself in a rage. No, that was just his heat talking. He had to snap out of it. He didn’t want babies. He wanted…

“Oh, fuck,” he looked down at himself through the water. “Uhh…” he grit his teeth, and grabbed the handles either side of the bath. “No!”

Except it was _yes_. Because there was no stopping it, now.

John gasped as a new sensation washed over him.

Not pain.

Desire.

Red-hot, burning desire that made the teenager gasp in shock.

And he knew, if Mycroft had still been there, he would have gone to him. Because this wasn’t just getting a bit horny when you saw someone hot in the changing rooms. This was _lust_ like John had never known it. His knees went weak, his skin felt hot, and he almost lost his grip on the bath as a weird weakness came over his limbs, stealing his strength, sapping his energy, and pooling it into something he didn’t know how to stop.

“Oh, god!” John parted his legs without thinking about it, feeling another gush of slick pour out of him into the bathwater, mixing and clinging to his soaking clothes. He whined, feeling his insides throb, this time with emptiness, and there was another rush of slick as he cried out.

The ache subsided mildly, and John wiped a wet hand over his face, then winced as he realised what was mixed into the water.

“Uh, gross…” he pulled the plug, but didn’t get out, the cold clothes stuck to him feeling quite nice. He shut his eyes for a moment, and tried to think.

Heat. First heat. Need. Knotting. Babies. Bonding…

John moaned, and put a hand to his neck as prickles of desire ran over his skin again. He turned the tap, and refilled his bath.

 

*

 

By the time the front door crashed open, thirty minutes later, John was crying.

He felt terrible – he was hot and aching and he’d given in and touched himself after a quarter of an hour, coming barely satisfied, and then shaking with need immediately after. He’d climbed out of the bath, torn his clothes off, and staggered across the hall into Sherlock’s bedroom, climbing onto the bed, skin still damp, and inhaling the scent of the bedding like it was a drug.

The scent of Sherlock soaked into his lungs, clouded the omega’s brain, and soothed him for a few moments, letting John try and think, try and wipe the tears from his face as slick trickled out of him, making him tremble and shake with need.

And he hated it.

John was ashamed of how he rutted against the bedclothes, how he moaned Sherlock’s name in need for him to come home, how all he could think of was bites and babies and getting some sort of relief from the drawing emptiness.

So when the door slammed, and Sherlock yelled “John!” in a broken cry, John could only wail in reply.

Sherlock stormed up the stairs, and John could hear him panting, inhaling the scent which was no doubt thick in the air. “John… John, you’re…”

John dragged a sheet up over his legs at the last second, looking up in shame as Sherlock stood in his doorway.

“I’m sorry,” John sobbed, “I… your bed smelled so nice…”

“It’s ok,” Sherlock dropped his jacket, and started on his shirt buttons. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here. John… my John…”

John started crying again, hunching over as more slick came.

Sherlock groaned at the scent, giving up on his buttons and tearing his shirt off, instead, coming over and touching John gently on his sweaty arm. “John, you smell so beautiful…”

John shook his head, hiding in the duvet.

“You do,” Sherlock insisted. “I’ve never… John, you smell so… You’re everything…” He ran his touch up John’s arm.

John lifted his head. “Mycroft –”

Sherlock growled, and a shock of lust ran through John’s insides. “Not now. Later.”

“Sherlock,” John wiped his face. “Sherlock… it hurts.”

“I’ll make it better,” Sherlock’s voice was a low rumble. “Make you feel so good, my John.” He bent down to scent John’s neck, running his nose along his damp skin.

 _No_.

It was like flicking a switch. One moment John was trembling with need, the next he was frozen in terror. He went icy cold, nausea bubbling in his empty stomach, his muscles going rigid in fear.

_Dirty. Wrong. Slut._

“John,” Sherlock breathed, oblivious. “Such a good omega…”

_…you ungrateful little bitch!_

“So perfect,” Sherlock gave a kiss to John’s throat.

_You’re a disgrace…_

“You smell so ready for me, John.”

 _All omegas are **whores**_.

“John?”

**_Sluts and whores_.**

Sherlock moved back. “John, what’s wrong?”

John couldn’t answer. He couldn’t move at all. Sherlock’s weight was still pressed against him, his erection against John’s hip. John couldn’t move away, couldn’t speak.

His head was filled with horror.

_“…no matter how badly you cry that you want a mate, the truth is you just want someone to fuck you. All omegas are sluts and whores.”_

John whined, tears leaking down his face again. He did want… that. He wanted someone. He wanted to be… Had.

“John…” Sherlock touched his arm.

John jerked it away. “Don’t. Please.”

“But… John, you’re…” Sherlock’s voice was ragged, torn, harsh with need. “John, you – you need… help.”

“I don’t want it!” John shouted. “I don’t _want_ it!”

Sherlock stood, and John could see the thick outline of his cock, straining against his trousers. He gripped the bedclothes, his inner omega crying out in desire to have that obvious hardness inside.

“John… John, please. I’m – I’m not Mycroft. I – I’ll take care of you. I won’t hurt you. I’ll be gentle. I swear – John, I – I love –”

“No,” John sobbed, crying out as more slick soaked into the sheet on his legs. Sherlock’s fists clenched at the scent hitting the air. “You – don’t – want – me – I’m – not –”

“John, you’re perfect,” Sherlock fell to his knees, speaking to John’s tear-streaked face. “John, I want to be with you, not just now – but I do want you now – but I’ll be kind to you, I swear it, I don’t want to hurt you, please let me, John. John, please, I want to be inside you…”

John sobbed, wiping his face again. “I can’t… I’m –”

“John, please… it – I want to bond with you, please –”

_“You act so innocent, yet you’re designed by nature to lure an alpha into giving up everything he has gathered for himself. Money, property, even our time you thieve from us. And then you expect cock every time you decide to go into heat!”_

John screwed himself up into a ball, shaking his head. “No.”

“John –”

“Leave me alone,” he wept. “Sherlock, please, leave me alone. Leave me…”

Sherlock touched John’s hair, and John flinched away, again. “John, I – I can’t leave you. I want you.”

“You don’t want me,” John snapped. “Go away!”

There was a beat of silence, and for a moment John was braced for an attack – for more scenting to his neck, for his hair to be grabbed for his arms to be held fast, for his legs to be shoved apart –

And none of it came.

None of it came, at all.

John counted to sixty, then raised his head.

Sherlock was gone.

John’s face crumpled in distress.

And then the real agony began.

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for all your support for this fic! I was happily interviewed last week about fanfiction and writing in general on The SubRosa Writer. You can read the interview [Here](https://liladostal.wixsite.com/mysite/dani-olivers). Thank you, as always, for reading my work. You guys keep me going. xxxx

John woke up, his head throbbing, the day after next. He clicked his tongue against the dry roof of his mouth, trying to think when he’d last had something to drink. Not since yesterday, when he’d been crying in Sherlock’s en suite shower, trying to get his temperature down under the icy water, gulping it down from the faucet as he sobbed, his insides aching and on fire.

He moaned softly, lifting his head from what was apparently the carpet on the landing. His arms trembled, though not badly, and more importantly – the pain inside him had stopped. Slick no longer ran from him – it was dried onto his legs, and it cracked on his skin as he got to his knees, sniffing the air, tasting on his tongue the remnants of his own sweat, slick, and semen.

Disgusting.

John staggered up, opening the landing window as he passed it, dragging himself along the wall into his bedroom (open the window) and bathroom (and that one, too), running the cold tap and sticking his mouth under it, drinking until he felt sick and had to sit on the toilet lid, catching his breath.

Two days. It had been quick, though it hadn’t seemed like it.

John passed a hand over his face as he remembered what he’d done in the past forty-eight hours. No one to look after him, or bring him food or water as he used to do for Eurus, his condition had worsened until his temperature became shockingly high, and his cramps so painful he was wretching bile as fast as he was desperate for an alpha.

Sherlock, in what was probably a moment of kindness, had locked the front doors. John knew they were properly locked. He’d tried to get out, on the second day, when he was seeing stars. Even the windows wouldn’t smash – Mycroft had some sort of security glass in that wouldn’t give.

He shook himself, trying to get the memories to fade off as he stepped into the hot shower, and started to scrub at his skin.

 

*

 

John was too embarrassed to text Sherlock, or Mycroft. At least, right away.

Instead, he did three loads of washing (everyone’s bedding – he was appalled to discover he’d also pleasured himself in Mycroft’s bed, and doubted he would ever live it down), and concentrated on eating biscuits (the bread was stale), and drinking water, and waiting for his pee to turn from brown back to a colour less horrifying.

He sat at the kitchen table, staring at nothing.

He’d told Sherlock to go away. He’d hit Mycroft. He was the lowest of the low.

Just as Siger said.

John shuddered, passing a hand over the back of his neck, as if he could rub the memory away. It had been so… sudden. One moment he was desperate for Sherlock’s touch, the next it was as though John’s skin was ready to crawl straight off. It had been the scenting, he knew, he wasn’t stupid. Sherlock scenting him, the same slow, lingering, inhale along John’s skin… Just like his father had. A taste of John’s omega-ness.

It shouldn’t feel bad. Scenting was an intimate, loving act. It was a closeness, and an offering for bonding. Not necessarily sex – to bond emotionally, to get to know the person. Parents scented their children, close friends would do it. And lovers. Always lovers.

Except, for John, the act was spoiled. He’d been saving himself. And it had been stolen from him.

_He – he scented my_ _neck_ _. That – that was supposed to be for Sherlock!_

Sherlock would never be John’s first, now. Not his first scenting, which was almost more important than first kiss, first time having sex… It was supposed to be the first time you opened yourself to someone.

John was already ruined. Already dirty.

He put his glass down, and checked his phone. It was plugged into the wall, having died sometime during his heat. There were no messages.

In some way, that was a relief.

John wrote several messages, deleting them all before settling on the one he sent.

 

**I’m better. JW**

He sent it to Sherlock, and then turned his phone off, not wanting to see a reply. He ran yet another glass of water, and headed up the stairs. He stopped, on the landing, between his bedroom and Sherlock’s. He looked left to right, looking at each bedroom. Where to go.

He sighed, and let him feet take him into Sherlock’s room, and get under the fresh sheets, letting tiredness take hold of him.

 

*

 

“John.”

John sniffed, the scent of alpha flooding his nostrils as it never had before, and he sat up in fright, clutching the covers to his chest, though he was fully dressed. He relaxed as Sherlock clicked on the soft-glow bedside lamp.

“Oh…” he blushed. “I’m sorry.”

“We must stop meeting like this,” Sherlock smiled gently. He looked tired. John wondered if he’d slept at all.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m glad you feel comfortable, in my room.”

John lowered the covers. “Sherlock…”

Sherlock raised a hand. “I don’t want you to apologise. You did nothing wrong.”

“Except refuse you,” John sighed. “I –”

“That isn’t anything wrong,” Sherlock said. “I would never…” he took a deep breath, “I would never do anything to you that you didn’t want. I swear it.”

John bit his lip. “How did you even leave?”

Sherlock huffed out a laugh. “In stages. I got outside the room, and then had to brace myself for the stairs, the front door, the garden… I stayed outside for house for hours, snarling at anyone who passed.”

John stared. “Seriously?”

Sherlock picked at an invisible thread. “I saw you as mine. If I couldn’t have you, no one could.”

“…did Mycroft –”

“Yes,” Sherlock snapped, then sighed. “Sorry. He called me, after you… accosted him.”

“Accosted… Is he ok?”

“He’s fine. He’s staying with Lestrade, tonight. You did hit him pretty hard, though. He’s got a black eye. Well, a black side of the face, really.”

John pressed his lips together. “…god.”

Sherlock nodded. “He deserved it, John. He should have had more control. He’s been years without a rut, and he walked into your scent… He knows how old you are, he should have been prepared. And…” Sherlock looked John in the eye, “and I shouldn’t have left you. I’m sorry.”

“You couldn’t know,” John rubbed his eye. “I didn’t know, how could you?”

“I should… be aware.”

“You can’t know everything, even if you are a know it all,” John smiled, and Sherlock smiled back, the mood lifting slightly. “It’s ok.”

Sherlock’s smile faltered a little. “It could very well not have been.”

John smoothed the covers. “But it wasn’t. It’s ok.”

“John,” Sherlock reached out, but didn’t grab, keeping his hand up and open. John looked at it. A non-threatening hand. Long fingers, pale skin. Soft. A hand that had touched him, run up his arm, stroked him gently and with genuine affection.

He put his own hand into it, and Sherlock’s long fingers closed over his skin, enveloping him in safety, and shifting something deep inside him.

“John,” Sherlock repeated, “I think you need to consider… visiting the gynaecologist.”

John nodded. “I know. I… was thinking… I need… No, I _want_ ,” he stressed, then faltered. “Sherlock, I don’t know if I can do that again.”

Sherlock squeezed John’s hand, but didn’t answer.

“I don’t mean ever,” John said quickly. “I mean…”

“I know,” Sherlock nodded. “Whatever it is that made you say… it’s not something I want you to feel again. Until you’re ready. You’re only fifteen. None of this is fair.”

“I wouldn’t care about being fifteen,” John wiped his eyes with his free hand. “It’s just… I couldn’t. I’m sorry.”

Sherlock squeezed his hand again. “I said no more apologies.”

“I’m s-” John stopped, and sighed. “I’m not saying never, I swear it.”

“You don’t have to swear anything,” Sherlock said softly. “You just have to take this at your own pace. If - if _this_ really is what you want.”

“You think I don’t after I’m sleeping in your bed?” John smiled.

Sherlock blushed. “Well.”

John climbed over the covers, and crawled next to Sherlock, resting his head against Sherlock’s arm. It wasn’t quite scenting. But it was as close as John could get, just yet.

Sherlock put his arm around John’s shoulders. “I meant what I said, John. By the river. All that I am, I give to you. You know that, don’t you?”

“I know it,” John nodded. “And – and I meant my reply. You didn’t hurt me. I’m not stupid. I know how hard that must have been. But I don’t think many other alphas could have done it.” He breathed deeply, inhaling the alpha smell of Sherlock properly, without heat clouding his mind. Cigarettes, and something clinical, and a deep spiced woodsmoke that John had never smelled before. It curled in his lungs, soaked into his skin, and settled like a cloud over John’s mind. A comfort, not a fog of confusion. Something to learn, to get to know, and understand.

“This is yours to control,” Sherlock said. “I know that’s not something an alpha should say. But It’s what I want for you. You’ve been controlled for too long. You get to decide this one. Where it goes. How fast.”

John let out a slow breath. “I want to go on heat suppressants.”

“Alright.”

“But not scent-blockers,” John added. “I want…” he stopped, and sighed. “I know what it is, what it was, that made me… stop. The scenting. It… made me feel…”

“It’s ok,” Sherlock said, “you don’t have to describe it.”

“But I want to get over it,” John said. “When I was younger… I thought you’d be the first one to do that. And you weren’t. I’m sorry.”

Sherlock cuddled him closer. “John. Your first –”

“I know it doesn’t have to count,” John said. “But it happened. I can’t get past it, and I’m not going to forget it any time soon. I just… when we start… getting that close? I want it to be special, again. As special as it can be, given… the circumstances.”

“You’re the most special person I’ve ever known,” Sherlock said, looking down at John. “You really are. I’m so lucky to have you here, in my arms.”

John smiled, just a touch. “You’re ok, then? With me going on… suppressants?”

“I’m more than ok with it, John. I’m happy for you.” Sherlock stroked a hand over John’s hair. “John… may I kiss you? Just your hair. I don’t mind, if you –”

“Not a kiss,” John said. “Not tonight.”

Sherlock’s shoulders dropped a tiny bit. “Alri-”

“But, would you sleep in this bed?” John patted the covers. “With – with me?”

Sherlock looked down at him, eyes shining. “You’re sure?”

“Yes,” John nodded. “I… I miss you.”

“I’m here,” Sherlock stroked his hair again. “And I’m not going anywhere. Not tonight, and not ever. I…”

John’s heart leapt.

“I love you.”

John ruined the moment entirely, by bursting into tears.

 


	18. Chapter 18

Sherlock’s graduation ceremony was to be held at the end of August. There was some argument about who should go. Sherlock could only get two tickets to the ceremony, and he was adamant that John was entitled to one of them, but was less enthusiastic about Mycroft having the other.

“He’ll only make me pose for photos, and meet his horrid friends,” he sighed, reading through the order of service.

“He has put you up for a long time, though,” John said, shuffling closer on the bed as Sherlock held the booklet aloft. “It’d be nice for him to see you graduate.”

“I suppose,” Sherlock sighed, letting the booklet fall onto his face in defeat.

John smiled, and picked it off, smiling down at the alpha. “It’s either us two, or your mum and… yeah.”

“Mm,” Sherlock’s lips went thin. “Not really much of a contest,” he touched down John’s nose, booping the end. “We can go out somewhere nice to eat, after. You can choose.”

“Ok,” John smiled again. “Are you going to wear one of those square hats?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I’m going to take loads of photos,” John laughed, leaning on Sherlock’s chest a little.

“Good,” Sherlock didn’t seem to know what he was agreeing to as he touched the tops of John’s arms, gently squeezing the bare skin escaping from short sleeves. His soft touches and strokes sent little tingles over John’s body, making him tense and relax in little pulsing rhythms.

He’d been to the gynaecologist the week after his heat, and asked for suppressants.

“Are you sure?” the beta doctor had raised his eyebrows. “You are in a stable relationship –”

“I’m still at school,” John countered. “And I’m fifteen. And I don’t want a baby. Yet.”

The doctor glanced at his computer. “John, at your age, we usually prescribe scent suppressors.”

“I want heat suppressants.”

“There are side-effects,” the doctor said. “You can only take them for a few years without risking damage to your fertility.”

“That’s fine.”

“Look,” the doctor sighed, “has your alpha agreed to this?”

“I don’t have an alpha,” John yanked the neck of his t-shirt to one side. “Look – unbonded. I’m my own man.”

“Boy,” the doctor corrected.

“I can decide my own treatment.” John folded his arms. “Or I can go to another practice.”

There was a tense silence.

The doctor turned to his computer and started typing. “You need to take one of these a day, every day. If you stop, you’ll have a heat, maybe even the next day. They work as contraceptives, too, so…” he trailed off.

“Thank you,” John said as the prescription started to print.

“No problem,” the doctor handed it over. “I’m sorry for all the questions, John, but – ”

“It’s fine,” John stood. “Thanks.”

“I’ll see you in three months for your check-up.”

And that had been that. John had started taking the suppressants, and the summer holidays had started with him feeling slightly out of sorts before his hormones stabilised, and he felt alright. No, better than alright. He felt safe. There was no danger, now. No danger of going into heat, getting pregnant, being bitten… It was all ok.

Sherlock never mentioned John’s 6pm tablet alarm on his phone, though Mycroft had raised an eyebrow at it. Mycroft had been very quiet around John since the omega’s heat. John had apologised for the cricket bat, and Mycroft’s bruises had almost entirely vanished, but something had shifted in their relationship – they were both ashamed of their actions.

And, John suspected, Mycroft was bewildered as to how his brother and John remained unbonded. And he wasn’t the only one, if so.

John had told the other omegas in his class what happened when he went back for the last day at school. They’d immediately checked his neck, and demanded an explanation for the lack of bite.

“I said ‘no’,” John said, as if it was obvious.

“Jesus,” Ryan shook his head. “Your fiancé must be made of steel.”

“Or he’s one of those alphas who don’t get it up for omegas,” Tom hooted.

“Har har,” John rolled his eyes, thinking of how the alpha he knew who claimed not to be interested in omegas had almost attacked him. “No, he’s just a decent guy, that’s all.”

Everyone had exchanged dubious looks, and John hadn’t spoken to any of them all summer. Not that he didn’t want to. It was just that he felt safe, in his little cocoon of him and Sherlock. They’d spent most of the summer bonding. Not in the biting sense. In the getting-to-know-you sense.

John eased more of himself onto Sherlock’s chest, glancing down at the size difference between the two of them. Sherlock was a neat six feet tall, now, where John was five four, and didn’t seem to be growing upwards at the right sort of pace. John felt as though he could curl up on Sherlock’s torso and sleep, sometimes. John wasn’t built like most omegas – he wasn’t round in the face and limbs, nor did he have a soft stomach. John was lean – his sporting life meant he wasn’t the sort of pudgy omega he might have been, instead he was almost skinny. He wasn’t designed by nature to build up a lot of muscle mass without the right sort of diet and exercise, but all the running around he did meant he didn’t store fat as he ought to, either. He was different.

But Sherlock seemed to like it.

“You fit so nicely in my arms,” he said gently as John completed his slow climb on top of the alpha, and cuddled into Sherlock’s sternum. Sherlock draped his arms loosely over John’s body, as he had started to do a few nights ago. They were, without discussing it, letting John lead this. This – this physical thing – having started with them sharing Sherlock’s bed that night (Sherlock almost falling out in his efforts not to crowd John) was now an evening routine. John would shower, and dress in his pyjamas, then knock on Sherlock’s door.

And Sherlock would answer it, as though he was surprised to see John, and they would lie on his poufy, soft duvet, on top of the covers, talking and supposing and not really saying anything, starting far apart and slowly coming together like magnets, ending with John on top, easy to get away, in a cuddle.

Sherlock kept his hands well away from John’s neck, and above his waist, settling his spidery hands on the omega’s back. John loved that – Sherlock’s long fingers touching through his soft pyjama top, yet not seeking skin contact and giving John enough space to get away, if and when he needed to.

But that night, the booklet for Sherlock’s graduation lying forgotten, John stretched out his limbs, relaxing his legs so his bare feet crept down Sherlock’s legs, stopping midway down the alpha’s calves as the omega let his arms and shoulders relax, and turned his head to one side, hugging Sherlock back, as much as he could without wedging his hands underneath him.

“Mm,” John sighed, listening to Sherlock’s heart beginning to thump harder. “Is this ok?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said quickly. “Yes, it’s… nice.”

John lay still for a moment, listening to Sherlock’s breathing, his heartbeat, feeling his hands on his back. It was peaceful. Slightly nervy, it was true, Sherlock might have been beneath him, but if he wanted he could certainly hold John fast and stop him getting away.

But he wouldn’t.

John turned his head, and kissed Sherlock on the sternum, through his t-shirt.

Sherlock gave a little gasp.

John nosed at the spot he’d kissed, inhaling Sherlock’s alpha scent, and staying quiet as the scent ran through him, warming his joints and making little sparks dance over his skin. He kissed again, inhaling as he did so, his inner omega delighting in the immersion of such a close alpha.

“John,” Sherlock moved his hand a little stroking John’s back in small circles. “John…”

“Shh,” John nosed further up Sherlock’s chest. “I’m just…”

“Ok.”

They settled into a pattern of small movements, John kissing and inhaling, Sherlock stroking and making little shivered motions as John explored his chest, making no effort to get to his throat. That could wait.

Sherlock gave a soft little cry as John kissed his nipple, and his hips twitched, making John pause in realisation of what he was doing.

And then gasped as he realised that his own body was expressing interest in what was happening.

“Um…” John blushed scarlet, not wanting to look up at Sherlock, not wanting to move off because then Sherlock would _see_ , but Sherlock could probably feel it against him anyway…

“John,” Sherlock said, and John could hear a smile in his voice. “Are you ok?”

“Yeah,” John said. “I’m just a bit…”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Shall I go make us a hot chocolate?”

“Sure.”

And they both moved at once, so John could pull some of the blankets over himself, and Sherlock could stand, and John could tell the alpha was hard, too, struggling to stand properly, putting a hand in his pocket to try and disguise the fact.

John flopped back against the pillows as soon as Sherlock left the room.

It was true he wanted to take this slowly, but it was so bloody difficult when his body wanted one thing and his brain wanted another. Why did he have to be so bloody _teenage_?

Sherlock came back shortly, carrying a tray with steaming mugs and toast on it. “I’ve put peanut butter on yours.”

“Thanks,” John grinned, taking a slice as Sherlock set the tray down.

“You’re welcome.” Sherlock took his mug, and arranged the pillows so they could sit up beside one another. “Do you want –”

But Sherlock didn’t get to ask.

The bedroom door opened, and Mycroft let himself in, looking harassed.

“Mycroft, go away,” Sherlock snapped. “We’re just –”

“Eurus is pregnant,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock’s mouth snapped shut.

John dropped his toast.

Mycroft nodded. “She has sent me an email. Just now.”

Sherlock stood, his mug spilling over and dark chocolate staining the bedclothes. “How?”

Mycroft just looked at him.

John felt like the whole room was starting to spin, and he put his head in his hands.

“What has she said?” he heard Sherlock ask. “Does she need us to –”

“She needs to be helped out of the manor,” Mycroft said. “She hasn’t mentioned what her plans might be for… afterward.”

John could feel his chest going tight, and a noise trying to claw its way up his chest.

“We need to go,” Sherlock said. “Probably tonight.”

“I thought the same. I’ll call a car.”

“…John?” Sherlock was beside him. “John, are you ok?”

John shook his head, not raising it.

“John, we need to get our sister. You… you understand why?”

He nodded.

“Do you want to come –”

“No.”

“Alright,” Sherlock said. “We’ll lock you in. And you can call me every step of the way, if you like.”

John raised his head. “Is she going to be ok?”

Sherlock blinked. “I don’t know, John. I’m… I’m so sorry.”

“We left her there,” John’s voice broke. “We left her.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I should have told Mycroft to go back for her,” John hid his face again.

“John,” Sherlock touched his hair, gently, comforting. “This is not your fault. I swear it.”

“The car’s here,” Mycroft’s voice came back. “Are you –”

“I’m coming,” Sherlock said. He bent, and kissed John on the head. “I’ll ring you as soon as I can. Promise.”

John looked up as Sherlock moved away. “Wait.”

Sherlock looked back.

John darted forward, and pulled Sherlock down by his t-shirt, into a proper kiss, on the lips.

It was quick, and dry, but a kiss.

A real kiss.

“Please look after her,” John whispered.

Sherlock nodded. “I will.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS FOR:
> 
> Assault, non-consenting touch, PTSD, verbal abuse, firearms, discussion of abortion.

John checked his phone every three minutes, even when he was under the covers in Sherlock’s bed, the screen lighting up the duvet cave, making John wince against the bright light.

 

**Halfway there. Are you asleep? SH**

Not yet. Missing you. JW

**We’ll be back before you know it. SH x**

John clutched his phone tight, and closed his eyes. He half wanted to sleep, and half wanted to stay awake and listen for the Holmes brothers coming back. Around him, the house creaked in a way he hadn’t noticed before. There was a low creak suddenly, then a soft sound that told John it was nothing more menacing than the central heating.

He had a sudden urge to check the locks.

He got out of bed, and collected his cricket bat from his room before going downstairs, switching on every light he came to until he checked the back and front doors. Both locked. He crept back up the stairs, checking behind him halfway up, and deciding to leave the landing light on. Just to make the house look occupied.

John leapt into bed again, stuffing the covers around himself so none of his limbs would end up draped over the side. He held his phone tight again, and checked for another message.

Nothing.

He shut his eyes.

Mycroft and Sherlock, driving through the night.

Sherlock and Mycroft, breaking into the manor.

Or would they knock?

Did Sherlock still have a key?

Would there be a fight?

Would Eurus come willingly?

Eurus… John bit the skin around his thumbnail. The twisting guilt he felt was sickening. Eurus had been Siger’s real plaything. John was just a passing fancy – he knew he couldn’t have him for real.

Didn’t he?

Eurus… pregnant.

John swallowed. Was her own father the father of her baby? The thought made the omega twist under the duvet, and pull his knees up. It wasn’t just being grossed out – it was sheer disgust, the fact that incest had, probably, taken place, and made a person. A baby. It was horrifying, and John put his hands over his face as if he could hide from the thought of it.

“John.”

He tensed.

“John, drop your hands.”

That wasn’t Sherlock’s voice. Or Mycroft’s. He felt his heart lurch.

The mattress dipped with weight pressed onto it.

Pressed onto John’s legs. Pushing, holding him down.

“John, look at me. I want you to look at me.”

“No,” he gasped. “How… get off me!”

“No,” the voice growled, low, the alpha smell flooding John’s nostrils even as he tried not to breathe. _This could not be happening_ … “Look. At. ME.”

John’s wrists were seized and his hands torn from his face, giving him no choice but to look at the huge alpha crushing his tiny body into the mattress.

Torn skin, angry red scars, bloody eyes glared down at him as the alpha’s teeth bared. “Look at what you did to me, you bitch.”

John tried to scream. But no sound came out of his mouth.

“You ruined me,” Siger snarled. A drop of saliva dripped from his ragged lip onto John’s cheek. “Seems only fair I get to ruin you. And this time,” he lowered his face to John’s, “there’s no one here to come and save you.”

John thrashed, trying to free his arms, trying to kick with his legs, but it was useless. Siger had his trapped under the bedclothes, his heavy body holding John still as he licked a stripe up John’s throat, making him do another near-silent scream of terror.

“GET OFF ME!”

“You’re _mine_.” Another lick, and a nip, and John’s inner omega went into overdrive, adrenaline rushing through his body, trying to escape this assault, trying to stay safe, trying… And then it was as though he’s been switched off.

He couldn’t fight anymore.

It was best to just let it happen.

Self-preservation was only any good if you were alive.

Submit.

John whimpered, his body going soft beneath the alpha’s, his head rolling to one side, exposing his throat, where Siger sniffed delightedly, rutting against the bedding, his erection obvious even through the thick covers. He licked and dragged his teeth over John’s throat, and John couldn’t do a thing about it.

“ _Mine_ ,” he snarled once more, before drawing back to bite.

“John.”

John braced himself for the pain.

“John?”

It had to be soon.

“John! John, wake up.”

“No…” he twisted his head away.

“John!”

Someone was shaking him. Gently. There was no weight on his legs. No touch on his body.

He opened his eyes. “Oh god.”

Sherlock looked worriedly down at him. “Are you ok?”

John shook his head. “I’m going to throw up.”

Sherlock grabbed the bin seconds before John leaned over the side of the bed and heaved, giving up his supper in a sobbing wreck, the memories of the dream all-too real. Sherlock winced, but let John finish before helping him out of bed, and carrying him to his bathroom.

“Do you want a bath?” he said softly.

“No,” John said as he was set down. “Just water. And toothpaste.”

Sherlock pointed him in the right direction, and went back into the room, presumably to do something with the bin full of vomit.

John brushed his teeth miserably, then padded back into the bedroom and got under the covers. He was too shaky and tired to care that they were damp with sweat.

“Here,” Sherlock put a glass on the bedside table.

John nodded in thanks. “Did you get her?”

“Yes,” Sherlock stroked John’s hair. “She’s sleeping in your room. We thought it best, as you’re both omegas…”

“It’s fine,” John opened his eyes. “Is she ok?”

Sherlock opened his mouth, and closed it again. “I don’t know. She was waiting for us at the bottom of the driveway, with a bag. They might not even realise she’s gone, yet.”

“But is she ok?”

“…I don’t know.”

John rolled onto his side.

“Do… you want to be alone?”

“No,” John said quickly. “No, definitely not.”

“Ok.” Sherlock moved away, and went into the bathroom, coming out in soft pyjamas. He climbed into his side of the bed, not mentioning the twisted sheets. “John… if you –”

“Hold me,” John whispered. “Please.”

“…are you sure?”

“Please,” John’s voice cracked. “Please, I just… I need you…”

Sherlock moved over, coming behind John, and gently draping an arm over his middle.

John tolerated it for a moment, before shaking his head. “No, that’s…”

“Sorry,” Sherlock made to move his arm away, but John caught it.

“No, that’s not properly,” he said.

“Oh…” Sherlock shuffled closer as John shuffled back, until they were spooning properly, Sherlock holding John firmly against his chest, John’s feet pressed against Sherlock’s legs.

“Thank you,” the omega murmured.

“You don’t need to thank me,” Sherlock said. “Honestly, you don’t.” He lowered his head. “I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t wanted this for a long time.”

John blinked in the darkness. “…oh.”

“I want to keep you safe, John. I’ll always do my best to keep you from harm. I promise you.”

“I know.” John stroked down Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock kissed his head. “Try and sleep, John. Things will look better, in the morning.”

“I hope so,” John nodded, as he closed his eyes.

 

*

 

There was no sign of Eurus as Sherlock and John ate toast and marmalade in the kitchen the next morning. Mycroft was leaning against the counter, looking as if he hadn’t slept for days as he typed on his laptop.

“She’s really pregnant?” John asked, breaking the silence. “Can you tell?”

Sherlock put his toast down. “No bump, but… you can scent it.”

John forced his toast down his throat. “So… What does that mean?”

“It means the situation is incredibly complicated,” Mycroft said from across the room. “Though she hasn’t said as much, we have to assume the only alpha Eurus has been in contact with is… is her own father. Which is cause for taking him to court, but the fact she’s pregnant complicates matters.”

“Why?”

“Because the foetus is the property of the alpha who sired it,” Sherlock groaned. “Eurus is just… where it happens to be growing.”

“That’s sick!” John said. “That’s… if I have a baby, it’s my baby first. If I’m growing it, it’s mine.”

“Morally, yes,” Sherlock said. “Legally… the system is disgustingly archaic.”

“And Eurus could easily refuse to take Siger to court,” Mycroft added. “She’s been almost entirely brainwashed –”

“That’s not her fault,” John interrupted.

“No, it isn’t, but it means that if Siger comes here and demands her back, we have to hand her over,” Mycroft ruffled his hair. “He owns the baby, so Eurus has to go, too.”

“But they’re not bonded?”

“No, though it’s not from the want of trying, by the state of her neck,” Mycroft said, and John pushed his food away.

“Mummy is still alive,” Sherlock said. “Though what she knows of it all… She can’t testify against her mate, regardless.”

John thumped the table. “This is all bullshit! Why do omegas stop being fucking _people_ as soon as they’re bonded or pregnant? We’re not fucking _vessels_ for alphas to use!”

“John –”

“Eurus said that to me,” he went on, “years ago, when Sherlock first got into uni. She said you’ll never see us more than wombs, and she was right.”

“Stop that,” Sherlock said. “You honestly think that’s how I see you?”

“You might not, but _the system_ does,” John said. “If we bond, I stop being me, I can’t decide my own medical treatment or tell what secrets I think need telling. It’s not fair!”

“Shouting about the British legal system isn’t getting us anywhere,” Mycroft said patiently. “We need to get Gregory over here, so he can interview Eurus, and at least try and convince her to try a court case.”

“What about her baby?” John asked.

“She can’t possibly keep it,” Mycroft said. “Eurus isn’t capable of looking after herself, let alone a child that may yet be born with genetic abnormalities.”

John looked at the tablecloth. As much as it hurt his omega heart, he knew Mycroft was right. Eurus couldn’t look after a baby.

Sherlock reached across the table, and took his hand.

Mycroft sighed. “I’m going to call Gregory. If Eurus gets up, try and keep her comfortable.” He left, dialling into his mobile.

John looked up at Sherlock. “I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock squeezed his hand. “You don’t need to apologise. I… I never realised how backwards all this is. As long as I’ve been alive, the system – all of it – has played in my favour. Just because of the circumstances of my birth, I’ve been given chances you haven’t. Easier route, a less difficult time. An alpha from an old family can walk into a career, get away with minor offences, claim things as our ‘right’ that we should not. We are a privileged lot. I just didn’t realise how much until I started spending more time with you.”

John pulled a tight smile. “You know… All I wanted, when I was growing up, was to be a doctor. I didn’t realise I couldn’t be, until I lived with your parents.”

Sherlock frowned. “Why can’t you be?”

“Omegas don’t go to university.”

“Pish, how do you think your form teacher qualified?”

John pulled a face. “Most omegas, then.”

“John,” Sherlock stroked over his knuckles, “if you want to go to uni, you’ll go.”

John looked away, because his vision had suddenly gone very blurry.

“I mean it,” Sherlock said. “If you want to be a doctor, you should put that first. Before _anything_ else. Anything.”

John bit his lip, before nodding.

 

*

 

“Sherlock?” Eurus raised her head off the pillows.

“It’s John,” John whispered. “Sorry. You’re in my room. I’m just after some pants.”

“Oh,” she flopped back down and closed her eyes. “You’re here. Of course you are.” She inhaled. “And mature, but unbonded. How interesting.”

“It’s not that interesting,” John picked some clothes out of his drawers. “I’m still at school.”

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Eurus said to the ceiling. “That’s what you are.”

“Excuse me?” John looked at her, at how thin she looked – Eurus had always been slim, but now she loomed emaciated, skull-like in the face, her dark hair spilling over the pillows from her gaunt head.

“I mean,” she rasped, “you have the perfect set-up. Good alpha, safe home… and you’ve not let him bond with you? You’re a fool.”

“I’m choosing my own future,” John said. “I don’t want… anything else.”

She smirked. “That’s what you think.”

John stared at her. “Why did you email Mycroft?”

“Because I need a termination, and the baby’s father would never agree to it,” Eurus said. “Mycroft can arrange it. Make it look like an accident, if he has to.”

“The baby’s father…”

“What do you want?” Eurus glared at him. “A diagram?”

John shook his head, noticing the scars on her throat. Bite-mark after bite-mark after bite-mark.

“Good,” she went back to staring at the ceiling.

John looked at the clothes in his arms. “Are you going to stay here?”

“No.”

“I… think you should.”

“You’re a baby,” she said. “You know nothing, and you’re stupid enough to be unbonded in a world like this. Sherlock won’t wait for you forever.”

“You’re wrong,” John said. “He would.” And he left, before Eurus could say anything else.

 

*

 

“Right,” Greg scratched his nose with his pencil, and kept his eyes on his notebook. John couldn’t blame him, the whole situation was appalling. “Let’s see if I’ve got this straight. Siger Holmes, the man who John claimed was abusing him –”

“He was.”

“He’s not been charged, John, we have to say ‘claimed’,” Greg glanced at him. “So, Siger Holmes… you’re claiming, Eurus, that he’s the father of your… the cause of your pregnancy?”

She shrugged.

Mycroft made a noise like an angry cow. “Eurus! Talk to Gregory!”

She looked away, picking at the hem of the dress she was wearing.

“Eurus!”

“Stop snapping at her,” John said. “Let her speak when she’s ready.”

“We don’t have time for ‘ready’,” Mycroft said. “We need to file a case _immediately._ ”

“Eurus,” Greg tried again, softer, “who is the alpha responsible for your pregnancy?”

Eurus looked at Mycroft as if she would quite like to murder him. “I don’t know.”

“Why are you saying this?” Mycroft exploded. “Why?”

She just blinked at him.

“Oh, for god’s sake… Can we get a DNA done, or something?”

“I don’t know,” Greg admitted, “isn’t she a bit early on?”

“I think it is possible,” Sherlock mused.

John looked at Eurus, who was picking her hands, now. “Eurus… tell them?”

She ignored him.

“I’m sorry,” Greg said, eventually, cutting through the conversations, “but if Eurus doesn’t file a complaint, then I have nothing. Mycroft, you’re only her brother, you’re not anything else to her. You have no rights, here.”

“At the least this should back up John’s case,” Sherlock insisted. “She’s obviously pregnant, you can all smell it, and where else would she have met an alpha?”

“Stop talking about her as though she’s not here,” John said.

“John, can’t you see that –”

And then it all went wrong.

The front door, left unlocked by Greg, swung open.

And the stuff of nightmares walked through the door.

John screamed. A proper scream, and that’s how he knew it wasn’t a dream. Sherlock grabbed John around the chest, pulling him onto his lap as Greg and Mycroft leapt to their feet to stand in front of Eurus.

Eurus looked unconcerned.

Siger Holmes raised both hands. “Let’s make this simple, shall we?” he looked at John, who clung to Sherlock’s shirt so hard it threatened to tear. He looked back at his eldest alpha son. “This is the second time, Mycroft, you’ve stolen something of mine. Do you really want to drag this out into another court case?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Mycroft sneered, his hands balling into fists. “Eurus came here of her own accord, as did John.”

“Not just a disgrace to the idea of an alpha, but a liar, too,” Siger seethed. “Eurus. Get up. Now.”

She didn’t look at him. “I’m here for a medical procedure. Then I’ll come home with you.”

“No.”

“After I’ve seen a doctor,” she said again, still not looking at him.

Siger went red. “Eurus, I _forbid_ you to see anyone. Get on your feet, you useless whore.”

John covered his mouth, tears spring to his eyes.

“Get out of my house,” Mycroft took a step forward, leaving Greg beside his sister. “You have no claim to her. Get out!”

“I have claim to her whilst she’s in this state,” Siger roared back.

And John heaved as the truth echoed around the room.

Greg put his shoulders back. “I like public confessions, for what it’s worth.”

Siger didn’t seem to care. “You don’t scare me, flatfoot. Eurus is _my omega_ , and she’s carrying my child. You cannot stop me from taking her.”

“They can’t,” a floaty voice said. “But I can.”

John gasped.

Eurus stood, out of arm’s reach of anyone, a dreamy look on her face.

And Greg Lestrade’s handgun in her grasp.

Everyone went very still.

Eurus looked at the gun in her hand, and twisted it, pointing it at herself.

“No –” John blurted. “No, Eurus, please. Please, don’t.”

She smiled. “Fool, John Watson. You’re such a fool.”

And she snapped the gun forwards, and shot her father straight between the eyes.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, two updates in one day like what!  
> It was either this, or make the prevous chapter stupidly long.   
> Thank you, thank you, as always, for all the love and support on this fic. Please give my Tumblr (@Laiquilasse) a visit, if you like seeing a lot of reblogs of Ben C's face. xx

John remembered the ‘bang’ being very loud. More like a bomb, than a gun, going off. He remembered Sherlock’s arms clenching around him in shock. He remembered Greg lunging for the gun, getting it off Eurus as she smiled happily, the red mist in the air bloodying her face. He remembered Mycroft standing still, looking at the space where his father had stood.

The body that was on the floor, half of its head missing.

And Eurus laughing.

And laughing.

And laughing.

A high-pitched girlish giggle that kept on coming as Greg snapped handcuffs on her wrists, and told her anything she said could and would be used against her in court. She kept in laughing as he called for backup, for an ambulance…

Mycroft never moved.

Sherlock, on the other hand, had carried John into the kitchen, and sat him down on a chair before kneeling in front of him.

His hands were shaking.

John watched them tremble. Those long, slim fingers. For violin. For typing. For stroking John’s hair. They shook.

“John, speak to me.”

How strange that they should.

“John. John, please.” The fingers closed around his wrist. “John, you’re scaring me.”

What an odd thing to say.

Greg looked into the kitchen. “Oh my god… has he stopped, yet?”

“No,” Sherlock gave John’s hand a shake. “John, look at me. Look at my face, John.”

“There’s an ambulance on the way.”

“John!”

John raised his eyes, looking into Sherlock’s face. Sherlock looked frightened.

“John, stop making that noise, now. Just breathe.”

What noise?

John blinked. He could hear a humming, now he thought about it.

“That’s it. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

The humming got louder.

“Maybe not through your mouth, then. Just…. In, and out. Ok? Just…”

John coughed, feeling thick mucus at the back of his throat suddenly dislodge, and make him heave.

“Woah,” Greg lunged for a bowl, a bucket, anything, but John swallowed hard, and shook his head.

“No. No, no, no… No. No…” John reached out, and was grateful when Sherlock took his hands. “No, I…”

Sherlock held his hands tight, and leaned in, then stopped short before getting to John’s throat, his urge to scent and comfort the omega fighting against his urge not to do what John didn’t want. “John…”

“Sherlock –” John felt as if the white noise in his head was starting to fade. The world was shifting back into focus, and John realised he was the one who had been humming, rocking on the chair, making a strange noise, shaking and sweating. “Sherlock…” He looked into the alpha’s eyes. _His_ alpha’s eyes.

His alpha was alive.

The one that was dead was not his.

The one that was dead was _nothing_.

“Oh…” John almost threw himself forward into Sherlock’s arms, knocking him flat onto the kitchen floor, hearing him gasp as the omega buried his face in the crook of his neck.

“John!”

“Sherlock,” John clung hard, digging his fingers into Sherlock’s clothes, running his nose over Sherlock’s throat, scenting and scenting, letting the alpha smell soak into his body, calm him like a drug, still his shaking, warming his skin, making him forget.

“John,” Sherlock sat up, taking John with him, holding him close. “John, it’s ok. It’s ok, I’ve got you.”

John couldn’t speak. He wanted to ask. To ask what was going to happen.

But he could tell, just from the way Sherlock was holding him, that he didn’t know. He didn’t know what was going to happen.

 

*

 

It took hours for everything to be sorted, photographed, interviews done, and the body taken away in the ambulance.

Eurus was taken away in a squad car.

Mycroft went with her, in lieu of a solicitor.

Sherlock and John packed a case between them, and got in a cab.

“Where are we going?” John asked, running his thumb over Sherlock’s knuckles. They’d not really broken contact since the kitchen.

“My flat,” Sherlock said. “I’d planned to take you after graduation. As a surprise. But… I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to stay in that house, anymore.”

“No…” John rested his head against Sherlock’s shoulder. “No, I don’t.”

The cab drove past some monument or other, illuminated by bright lights.

“Are you sad?” John asked.

Sherlock huffed out a breath. “Yes. I’m sad. I wish I wasn’t. I wish I could just be glad he’s dead. I… I don’t know how I feel.”

John watched the lights outside the window. “Do you think she knew what she was doing?”

Sherlock was quiet, for a moment. “Yes. I think so. Whether she understood the consequences… It’s not for me to say. I doubt she’ll be seen fit to stand trial. She’s clearly mentally ill, and has been subject to abuse for a long time. She’ll need help. And there’s still her pregnancy to consider.”

John’s stomach clenched. “She seemed to accept what he did. But then… didn’t.”

Sherlock took a breath. “I don’t know if ‘accept’ is the right word.”

John considered. “Did you know?”

“No,” Sherlock shook his head. “Not until Mycroft took you. There’d always been something… not right. With Siger, and omegas. Eurus, yes, but… Even with Sherrinford. Sherry bonded with Archie because Archie didn’t hit him, he told me. I thought it was a joke, he always had a strange sense of humour.”

“… why don’t Sherrinford and Archie have children?” John asked.

“I don’t know. From what family gossip I heard, they haven’t slept together since their bonding.”

“So… they don’t love each other?”

“I think rather the opposite,” Sherlock said softly. “I think Archie does not push Sherrinford, because he knows he does not want to be pushed. Sherry might not want children. Maybe he doesn’t even like the idea of sex.”

John thought back to the party, years ago, where the two men had been close, avoiding questions about children, but holding hands the entire time. “And Mycroft doesn’t like omegas.”

“And Eurus could not hold onto an alpha of her own,” Sherlock said sadly. “Not her fault. She was under influence, it seems, long before she was of age. Siger’s obsession was with family, and prolonging the name of Holmes. His obsession hurt so many people. I… I am so sorry you ended up in that house. The day my parents told me they had bought me an omega… I hated it. I knew what Siger would make me do. How he would make me act. How he would expect me to treat you. And when you came to me, that day…” Sherlock looked at John, his mouth turned down, “John, my love, you were only ten. And you’d been trained to do what I said, to act as though you were somehow lower than me. I saw it, and even then I was sorry. Sorry you knew nothing of alphas and omegas, sorry you were in that house… and my behaviour in the years than followed… how you can stand to sit beside me now I might never know.”

John closed his eyes. “Because you make me feel safe.”

“…really?”

“Yes,” John said softly. “I know… when you left me… it wasn’t very…” he sighed, and opened his eyes, again. “I thought you hated me, and it was almost easy to hate you back, just because I didn’t know anything else. But I just ended up hating myself. Siger…” he stopped, and shoved rising nasty thoughts aside, “he told me things, and they stuck with me.”

“I am sorry.”

“You’ve made up for it. And…” John snuggled into Sherlock’s coat, “you make me happy. When I was in heat… I wanted you. Right up until you scented me. I couldn’t stop… thinking. But you left. You didn’t touch me – you still don’t, unless I do it first. You…” John looked up, “you don’t seem to be like other alphas.”

“Because you’ve known so many,” Sherlock teased.

“At school,” John shrugged. “And when the other omega lads talk about alphas… they don’t sound like you. You don’t sound like them. And I’m glad.”

Sherlock smiled, and kissed John on the head.

The cab pulled into a side-street, stopping outside a row of tall townhouses not unlike Mycroft’s, but these looked less posh. There was a café on the ground floor, and no gardens, not even the tiny patches of dried earth with bins in.

“We’re here,” Sherlock got out, and held the door for John, paying the driver as John got the case out. “Here,” Sherlock took it with one hand, and the casual gesture of strength and protectiveness made John’s chest tighten. “It’s that one. 221B.”

Sherlock unlocked the door, and John stepped in, inhaling the air, catching a beta scent, and cold air. Unlived in.

“How do you have this place?” John asked, keeping his voice low, as though he was in a library.

“I get paid for the work I do with Lestrade,” Sherlock said. “And Mycroft and I both have trust funds. I didn’t plan to live with him forever. He’s insufferable.”

John grinned, pleased at the glimpse of the real Sherlock. The one he remembered. The one he… liked. “I can smell a beta?”

“That’ll be the landlady,” Sherlock said, starting up the stairs. “I’ll introduce you later.” He unlocked the top door and set the case in the centre of the room. There were a few boxes of books and papers around. “I moved a few things in last week, but…”

John walked past him into the flat, looking around. It was nothing like Mycroft’s house. There were no sparkling surfaces, no white chairs and carpets and gleaming mirrors. This flat was small, and cramped, and smelled of warmth. The furniture was well-worn and the rugs over the floorboards were threadbare.

It was wonderful.

“I can try and –”

“I love it,” John said honestly. “I do. It’s… it’s a proper home. I hadn’t realised.”

Sherlock smiled. “I thought so. I liked it straight away.”

“You didn’t find it through Greg, did you?” John asked, wondering if the place was a former drug den.

“No,” Sherlock laughed. “No, not quite.” He looked away, and John wondered if he was thinking of the case Greg was currently working – that of his sister, guilty of murdering his father.

Whether or not Siger deserved it, Eurus had killed him.

Nothing would change the fact they had all seen it. That terrible act of violence, followed with such a cold laugh of joy.

“Sherlock…” John walked over, and took his hands. “Are you ok?”

“No,” Sherlock admitted. “I don’t think I am.” He looked down at their hands. “I don’t know what’s going to happen. Eurus is pregnant. She killed our father. Mummy will be receiving a police officer to the house at any moment…”

“Will she be ok, your mother?” John gasped. “I know some omegas…”

“She won’t die,” Sherlock said. “They weren’t close enough. There’s more to bonding than a bite. And after me… I don’t believe they had much of a relationship. Can you blame her?”

“Not at all,” John said. “I… My parents weren’t bonded. But I think they were happy.”

“The more I see of this world,” Sherlock sighed, “the less I believe what I was dragged up to believe.” He sat on the arm of the sofa, keeping hold of John’s hands. “I believe I have much more to learn, too.”

John stepped in between Sherlock’s legs, and hesitated. If he went closer, Sherlock would be able to scent along his throat.

But maybe that was ok. There was no one else to come and take John away. No one else to come and do things to him that he didn’t want.

He could do this.

John took a deep breath, and stepped closer, his clavicle level with Sherlock’s nose.

Sherlock’s breath caught. “John…”

“Please,” John whispered.

Sherlock pressed his lips together. His hands moved from John’s, up the omega’s arms, moving over to his waist, to his back, loosely holding his back and waist. All the while, his face stayed still.

John arched his back against the touch, soaking it up.

Sherlock moved his head, just a fraction, enough for his nose to brush along one of John’s collarbones.

A spark shot through John. Like electricity. Like fire.

Sherlock paused, then moved again, this time just brushing his lips over the same line.

John’s breath caught.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes.”

The touch came again, nose and mouth and breath, along John’s bones, then up to the curve where his shoulder met his throat.

John tensed.

Sherlock kissed his skin. The spot where John’s scent was strongest. Just a kiss.

Then pulled back.

And looked John in the face, and smiled. “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to stop,” John said, going red.

Sherlock put a hand at the side of John’s face. “I want to stop. Just for tonight. After all that’s happened today… It doesn’t feel right to do anything more.”

John nodded. “Yeah. Sorry. I…”

“Don’t say sorry,” Sherlock said. “Please. I don’t want you to be sorry. I… I love you.”

John pressed his lips together. “… I… you too, you know.”

“I didn’t know,” Sherlock pulled him into a close embrace. “But I’m so glad.”

John nosed at Sherlock’s neck, up his jaw, listening to the low rumble of comfort he drew from Sherlock’s throat. And gradually, the two young men found one another’s kiss, as soft and gentle, and as comforting as it could be.

 


	21. Chapter 21

**Six Months Later**

“Happy Birthday, John,” Sherlock set the cup of tea on the bedside table.

“Uhhhh…” John pulled the covers over his head. “It’s the crack of dawn, Sherlock.”

“It’s 6:30am,” Sherlock clarified. “I’ve gotten you up early so you can open your presents before school.”

“Unnnn,” John groaned. “Honestly?”

“Honestly. I’m starting bacon, if you’re interested?”

“Ok,” John pushed the covers away. “I’m getting up.”

Sherlock grinned, and leaned down to kiss him.

“I’ve got breath,” John hid his face in the pillow.

“I don’t care,” Sherlock started kissing his ear and his neck.

“No, I’m all Morning John!”

“That’s one of my favourites.”

“Sherlock!” John grabbed Sherlock by the dressing gown and pulled him down, giggling, wrestling him into the covers. “You’re impossible.”

“I love you,” Sherlock grabbed his wrists and shoved them up, either side of his head, kissing his jaw as John shuddered and went still, letting Sherlock scent his morning softness. “So much.”

“I love you too,” John sighed, with a smile. “But I’d love you more if you made me a bacon sarnie.”

“Ha,” Sherlock nipped at his chin. “You’d best get up, then.”

John grinned as Sherlock left, savouring the feeling of the alpha on top of him, of the scenting, and how easy their gentle banter was.

It had taken months to get here, even after they moved to Baker Street.

John’s nightmares had not completely subsided, even now. And when they first moved in, John would wake up shrieking, the covers tangled around his legs as Sherlock pelted up the stairs to his room to calm him. Sherlock would sort his bedclothes out, and ask if John wanted him to stay. Sometimes, John would refuse. Other times, John would say yes, and Sherlock would climb in and hold John gently in his arms, scenting him softly.

Mycroft had sold his house, and bought another. He had also, as the head of the household, put Holmes Manor onto the market. Violet Holmes was now living in a seaside home, where she had grown up, and was apparently thriving, though attending regular therapy sessions to help her deal with what had happened to her and her children. Sherlock and John had been to visit, once. John hadn’t known what to say, and the visit hadn’t gone well, with too many long silences and sad stares.

Eurus was in hospital.

There had been a court case, albeit a brief one. Eurus was found unable to stand trial. It was unsurprising – she hadn’t said a single word since shooting her father. She stared into the middle distance, her hands limp at the wrist as they dangled over the arms on the chair. Her pregnancy had been brought to an end shortly after her arrest. It was the only thing she would react to, when questioned. The only nod she would give. The only paper she would sign.

Sherlock had been to visit Eurus, violin in hand.

John had not.

He wasn’t ready for that. If he ever would be.

John stayed at home, burying himself in schoolwork, attending rugby practice, running club, after-school biology sessions that meant he was on track to score extremely highly in his GCSEs. He had already applied for the sciences and maths at Sixth Form, and as long as he got the grades would be right in.

Sherlock went through his homework with him, even setting up a chemistry set in the kitchen so John could do practical work. At least, that was his excuse. Sherlock used the makeshift lab more than John for his ‘cases’.

‘Cases’ were what Sherlock did with his days when he wasn’t in Uni for his post-grad MSc. It looked to John a lot like running about with Greg Lestrade, but it brought in money and made Sherlock happy, even if he poo-poo’ed John’s suggestion that he should join the police force for real.

And then it was October, and John was doing mock-exams and staying up until 2am with revision.

And then it was November, and John had a terrible bout of sleep, that lasted for weeks, where he ended up in Sherlock’s bed every night, needing constant physical contact because his night terrors were so real he was scratching at his own skin trying to fight off dead men who weren’t there.

And then it was December, and Christmas again, and John started going to therapy. And Sherlock passed his winter exams. And Mycroft came over for Christmas Day, and something sort of healed. There was a moment, where they were eating snacks in the dim glow of the fairy lights, when John felt something click into place. Mycroft was half-asleep in the armchair. And John was lying down, his head in Sherlock’s lap, being fed Kettle Chips whenever he opened his mouth, like a demanding baby bird.

“Sherlock,” John said, looking up.

“Mm?” Sherlock looked down, the multicoloured lights shining on his pale skin.

John didn’t say anything else, just smiled, and hoped Sherlock could read into it.

And he must have. Because the alpha smiled back down at him, with love in his eyes.

That night, they went straight to Sherlock’s room, together. And though there was nothing between them that would have counted as sex, there was a different tone of intimacy as they kissed and cuddled and scented one another. A veil of uncertainty had slipped away, and there was a newness to Sherlock’s hands on John’s arms, a fresh feeling to their kisses.

And so it had been, onwards, from there.

John came out the bedroom ( _the_ , not _Sherlock’s_ ) yawning, accepting a plate with a bacon sandwich on it. “Thanks. Oh, you’re brilliant, you are.” He took a bite out of it and made an obscene noise.

“Less of that, Mrs Hudson will think you’re getting a different sort of birthday present,” Sherlock smirked.

“Har har,” John sat at the breakfast bar. “She thought that on _your_ birthday. She practically broke her neck trying to see mine.”

“Hm,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “What can I say, it’s not every day you get gifted some Victorian poison samples.”

John swallowed, and smiled. “I’m glad you liked them.”

“Well, I hope you like yours,” Sherlock nodded at the pile on the sofa. “Sweet Sixteen.”

John blushed. “That’s… a bit weird, actually.”

“Well, a lot of omegas have parties for their sixteenths, don’t they?” Sherlock picked up his tea. Sherry did. And Eurus."

“Oh.”

“Mm, though like most parties Mummy threw, they were just an excuse for people ‘to impress’ to come through the doors.”

John smiled. “It’s the tradition behind it I don’t like.”

“Yes,” Sherlock winced. John had sent him the article about omegas being force-bonded on their sixteenth birthday or the heat closest to it back before it was illegal. “That was an unpleasant truth to learn.”

John finished his sandwich. “On that cheery note – presents!” He grinned, and shoved his stool back, hopping down and heading to the sofa, picking up the first one with delight.

 

*

 

Though John had insisted on No Party, he did end up getting dragged to the bowling alley by the other omegas in his class.

“Sixteen now, John,” Ryan thumped him on the arm. “You going to let Sherlock bite you, or what?”

“Fuck off,” John held a bowling ball up threateningly. “I’m not here to discuss my personal life.”

“Of course you’re not,” Quinn, having left his baby at home with his mate, was texting him non-stop. “But you have to admit it’s strange.”

“It’s not strange,” John bowled, knocking down seven pins. “We’re just not launching into anything. Honestly, you’d think you’re trying to get me bonded off.”

“You can’t see what’s under your nose, you,” Tom said, adding the score to the computer. “Sherlock is tall, dark and handsome. He’s not a mad rapey fucker, and he wants to support you going to uni. Christ, John, you should be snatching his hands off.”

“I can’t bond, anyway,” John sighed as Ryan took his turn. “I don’t have heats, so there it is.”

“So stop taking your pill.”

“I’m not having a baby at my age. No offence, Quinn.”

“No, I don’t blame you,” Quinn looked up. “They are a bit full-on.”

“Then just get a contraceptive,” Tom typed again. “Or an after-heat pill.”

“Why are you lot so bothered, anyway?” John moaned.

The other omega boys exchanged glances.

“Well, after what happened…” Ryan started.

“We saw the papers,” Tom said.

“Yeah. And – and it like… you live a bit dangerously, John. You lived with two alphas, and before that another one. We – we’re worried about you.”

John blinked. “Are you being serious?”

They nodded.

He sat up. “You – you honestly don’t get why I’m not in a rush to bond?”

Quinn looked back at his phone. The other two boys looked at each other.

“John,” Ryan leaned forward. “John… you don’t talk about it. All we know is you moved to London out of the blue, lived with two alphas, one of whom you’re engaged to, and then suddenly their dad gets shot dead.”

John flinched.

“Sorry,” Ryan realised his mistake. “John… what happened to you?”

John almost said. Almost blurted it all out, right then and there. Then he glanced up. There was a group of alpha boys a few lanes down, obviously looking over at the omegas. One of them nudged the other, and made an obscene gesture. They laughed.

John’s friends were oblivious.

He shook his head. “Not yet. Maybe…” he laced his fingers together. “I’m seeing this woman. This therapist. I think, maybe in a while, I can talk about it. But not yet.”

The smiles had all gone.

“Shit, John. I’m sorry for asking, I never –”

“I know, it’s ok.” John stood to take his turn. “I get why you asked. Just… trust me, ok? When I say that it’s not the right time.” He picked up the bowling ball. “And Ryan, one of the alphas over there has his eye on you. Watch your back, eh?”

 

*

 

“Hey, did you have fun?” Sherlock looked up from his laptop when John got in.

“Sort of. Yeah, it was nice to see Quinn.”

Sherlock paused as he drew up a memory of who that was. “Oh, yes. How is he? He’s a mother, isn’t he?”

“Yeah,” John hung his coat up. “He never took his eyes off his phone.”

Sherlock hummed, and closed his laptop. “Have you eaten? I thought I’d let you choose take-out.”

“That sounds great,” John said, slumping onto the sofa. “Uh, my arm’s aching.”

“Well, this might cheer you up.”

John looked, just as Sherlock lit the final candle on the cake he was holding. “Oh…”

“I wasn’t going to sing,” Sherlock said, the candle-light flickering. “Should I?”

“Please don’t,” John sat up, going red. “That’s… ok.”

“Well… Happy Birthday, John,” Sherlock brought the cake, with sixteen candles on, over so John was close enough to blow. “Make a wish?”

John inhaled. “Ok…” He blew, and got fourteen candles out of sixteen. Another blow for the final two. “Ha. I don’t think you get your wish if it takes two attempts.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Sherlock said. “I think it depends what you wished for.”

John looked at him, and felt his stomach swoop. “…you know I can’t tell you. Or it won’t come true.”

“Alright,” Sherlock smiled softly. “I’ll call for food, then?”

John nodded.

Sherlock made to get up.

“Or –” John reached out, and Sherlock stopped, still holding the cake.

Neither of them said anything.

Sherlock made to move away, then put the cake down on the coffee table, instead, kneeling and turning to John.

And neither of them spoke.

John raised his head slightly, looking straight into Sherlock’s eyes.

The air felt thick with static. It crackled.

John’s scalp prickled.

Sherlock was lower than John. The position was unnerving, slightly wrong. John wanted to reverse them.

“John,” Sherlock breathed, his gaze flicking down to John’s mouth.

John gave a single nod. He more than wanted. He needed. After the afternoon with the other omegas, and the months of slowly building to… something. He wanted… whatever was going to happen.

He wanted Sherlock.

Sherlock leaned, and John melted against him like wax.

John fell back against the leather as Sherlock leaned over him, one arm pressed against the sofa, the other cupping the back of John’s head as they kissed. They were deep kisses, exploratory, kisses that built on the steady snogs that had built-up over the past few months.

John moaned softly, tension in his body building at the same rate as relaxation, making him tremble.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock kissed the hinge of his jaw.

“Please don’t stop,” John cried. “It’s my birthday.”

Sherlock laughed softly. “Oh, well, in that case…” he licked a stripe up John’s throat, making him moan. He scented quickly at the curve of John’s neck, before kissing the spot where his scent was strongest.

John had never been happier he’d refused scent blockers. He felt pleasant shivers run over his skin, and warmth blossom inside him as Sherlock kissed him, the kisses moving back to his mouth, John accepting them happily, moving his hands to Sherlock’s waist, chancing touching below the belt.

Sherlock _growled_. An actual alpha growl of lust that made John go rigid.

“Sorry,” Sherlock kissed him quickly, “sorry, it’s just… you're so...”

“It’s ok,” John kissed back. “Please…”

Sherlock nodded. “John, you can say…”

“I want you,” John put a hand to the side of Sherlock’s face. “Sherlock… not – not all the way,” he blushed. “But just keep kissing me?”

Sherlock smiled, turning his head to kiss John’s palm before moving to kiss his throat again. “Happy Birthday, beautiful.” He scraped his teeth over John’s goosebumped skin.

John gasped.


	22. Chapter 22

John woke naturally, the ease of February half term a welcome relief from the manic last few weeks of school. His birthday had been a pause in the endless stream of revision and studying and reading textbooks that made no sense.

Sherlock had helped, as much as he could, but his methods of helping John study weren’t always helpful. He was just too clever, and he didn’t ‘dumb down’ his explanations quite enough. Still. John appreciated the gesture.

This week off was very welcome. They could spend time together, and wake up slowly, and do things other than do homework and eat increasingly experimental meals.

John stretched, flexing his legs beneath the covers, rolling his shoulders from where he lay on his stomach.

A cool hand moved to touch his back, stroking over his sleep-hot skin.

“Mm,” John smiled into the pillow.

“Good morning.” Sherlock massaged his fingers into John’s back muscles for a moment, before moving over to kiss his shoulder. “Did you sleep ok?”

“Mm, yeah. Nice to get a lie in,” John turned his head and opened one eye, peeping at Sherlock’s sleep-tousled head. “I thought you’d be up.”

“I thought about it, but I didn’t want to disturb you.”

John smiled again. “Were you watching me sleep?”

“A bit.”

“Weirdo.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you could see what I see when you’re sleeping,” Sherlock stroked John’s hair. “You’re too beautiful to bother when you’re sleeping.”

John pouted, then put a hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck, pulling him down for a kiss. Sherlock responded smoothly, leaning over John so the omega had to roll onto his back, the alpha half over him, one leg moving over one of his own.

They’d done things like this. But it had always stopped. They’d taken off their tops, but not their bottoms. They’d taken baby steps.

And this was another step.

John hummed happily as they kissed, moving his legs apart just a touch, so Sherlock’s right leg could fall between them. Sherlock’s soft tongue pressed against John’s, neither of them caring that it was morning, both of them kissing back, languidly, as though they had all the time in the world. John moved his hands up over Sherlock’s arms, then down his back, over his pyjama top, to the hem, slipping his hands beneath.

Sherlock broke their kiss, and knelt up to shrug off his top, whilst John did the same, wriggling on the mattress as he yanked his top up and off, tossing it onto the floor before Sherlock settled back over him, the duvet over his shoulders as their kisses resumed, soft caresses over lips, teeth grazing as Sherlock tasted the omega he loved, before they came together with deeper exploration, tongues pressing and meeting in touches that sent sharp flecks of electricity down John’s body.

John breathed in deeply, relishing the warm contact between his bare chest and Sherlock’s, the difference between them. Sherlock was a typical alpha, who easily gained muscle mass even though he barely worked or ate for it. His chest was dusted with a few strands of dark hair on his sternum, and his angles were sharp. John was smaller, but had muscles faintly defined from sport – he didn’t spend time in the gym working on a look – he was sculpted by his life, and as an omega would never become overly muscular, but he was firm, and he looked beautiful. And Sherlock murmured as much as he stroked a hand down John’s chest, pausing to gently run a finger over a nipple.

John gasped, raising his chest into the touch as he bit his lip. “Sh-”

Sherlock kissed his jaw, moving down to his throat… and kept going. John gripped the bedsheets beneath him, and let out shivered little cries as Sherlock’s kisses moved down his chest, and to his nipple. Sherlock’s lips closed over the pink nub, his tongue flicking over the sensitive flesh, which responded in a rush of blood, hardening the nipple, inviting him to bite. John cried out softly, closing his eyes as Sherlock’s teeth scraped over the sensitive skin. He put a hand to Sherlock’s head, gripping the longish hair as Sherlock kissed and sucked at the reddening skin.

“Sherlock…”

“You’re so gorgeous, John,” Sherlock breathed. “You…”

“Mm,” John clamped his lips together as Sherlock pinched the nipple on his opposite side. “That’s…”

“Stop?”

“Fuck off, no.”

Sherlock flashed a grin, and licked over the nipple he was torturing once more. “I love your reactions.”

“Yeah…” John shuddered, his hips twitching as he felt his cock hardening. “Shit…”

Sherlock gave the sore-looking nipple a final kiss before moving back up the bed to kiss John’s mouth again. John responded, gripping Sherlock’s hips suddenly as he felt a hardness not unlike his own press into his thigh. John let out a shaky breath.

Sherlock moved his face, looking down at John as if trying to read something in his eyes. Then curled his hips, just a little, just enough to rub his erection against John’s.

John let out a little “Ah!”, his hips raising in search of further purchase.

Which Sherlock gave to him with another gentle roll of his hips, brushing hardness over hardness, their pyjama bottoms the only barrier between hot flesh. John couldn’t help thrusting up, his body running on some agenda he couldn’t overturn, though Sherlock’s movements stayed gentle, stayed steady, rocking his cock over John’s, giving little moans as John slowly came undone beneath him.

“Fuck,” John’s hands skittered over the bedclothes, then to Sherlock’s body, his own clothes… “I – I – Can we…”

“Yes,” Sherlock hooked his fingers into John’s waistband, but didn’t yank down. “If you want –”

John nodded, arching his back, lifting his arse from the bed as Sherlock pushed his trousers down, and then his own, kicking the fabric down under the covers.

John kept his eyes on the ceiling, grateful for the duvet.

They didn’t touch, for a moment. Sherlock held himself up, hovering over John, their nakedness not connecting, not yet.

“Sure?”

John nodded.

Sherlock lowered himself, until his cock got into contact with the omega’s. And John gasped at the difference the lack of fabric made. He knew Sherlock would be large – alphas were, it was essential for impregnating male omegas. But this… was almost enough for John to say ‘stop’. If it hadn’t been for Sherlock’s kind eyes watching him, for the way Sherlock was gently rocking his hips, brushing his erection over John’s like a caress…

“Oh my god,” John breathed, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s neck. “That’s…”

“God, I love you,” Sherlock dipped his head and scented John’s neck, kissing and tonguing at his skin as he increased the pressure below. “Love you so much, John. You’re so gorgeous. So perfect.”

The praise made John melt, his inner omega relishing in being told such things. He gave a little purr, and parted his legs further, letting Sherlock settle there, their cocks slotting together as if designed for it, heat against damp heat as Sherlock continued his thrusts, rubbing them together, sparks of pleasure flying between them.

“Mm,” John stifled a moan, feeling something damp between the cheeks of his arse. That… was new. “Oh my god, Sherlock… My… I’m…”

“You’re – not going into - heat,” Sherlock said, haltingly. “Just… natural reaction to…”

“Oh,” John let his head roll back. Then groaned as Sherlock reached between them, took them both in hand and _squeezed_. John sobbed at the feeling of his own hard cock against Sherlock’s much large one, feeling skin moving over hardness against him, and oh _god_ this was what it was meant to be. “Fuck!”

“John,” Sherlock forced between his teeth, “d’you want me to… I’m…”

John almost nodded, for ease, but instead felt himself go bright red as he looked up at his alpha. “Don’t come. I… I want…” shit, he didn’t know the right words, he didn’t know how to be sexy… “I want you to… play? With me?” he chanced.

The look on Sherlocks face said that far from being ridiculous, this was the sexiest thing Sherlock had ever heard. He moaned, lunging forward to kiss John’s mouth, scent his neck, lick and taste him as much as he could, even as he released his grip of their cocks, and let his hand drift lower, squeezing the muscle of John’s thigh, sparse blond hairs twisting under his palm as he reached down, finger-tips skimming soft, virgin skin.

John almost looked away in shame. His face was burning up, and Sherlock was kissing him as though he was made of china even as the alpha’s fingers touched the slowly leaking wetness coming from John’s entrance.

The touches skimmed through the cleft of his arse, and John felt wetness travel with it, up and down, feeling with utmost care, until finding the tense, taut skin of his entrance, and stroking tiny circles over the drawn skin.

John shook his head.

Sherlock stopped. “No?”

“No, not… I don’t know if… It’s so small,” John whispered.

Sherlock smiled, and kissed him. “I love you.” He moved his hand away, his fingers damp with John’s slick, and took hold of their erections again, making John shudder in pleasure. “Your body knows what it wants.”

John had to agree, as his pelvis responded to the pleasure of Sherlock’s grip with a thrust into his hand. A hot sort of pleasure bloomed inside him, and John held tight around Sherlock’s neck as the alpha worked them both together, swearing softly, moaning against John’s skin as the face increased, harder and faster, John shaking with need, but unable to let go.

“John, you’re so close, I can feel it,” Sherlock whispered. “I can… I want you to come. Come for me?”

John whined, hiding his face in Sherlock’s chest as he tried to let go, tried to let his orgasm peak when all he wanted was for this to continue, for the pleasure to keep on, even as Sherlock ran his thumb over John’s glans, smearing the liberally pre-come over them both, moaning as he tried to hold off his own climax until John had reached his.

And then –

John shouted in shock, pleasure slamming into him like a wave, knocking him flat against the mattress, his arms giving way completely as he came. His orgasm dragged out, making the omega cry out, clear ejaculate streaming from his cock, joined immediately by thick white ropes from Sherlock’s cock as the alpha bit hard into the pillow beside John’s head, rutting into his own hand, against John’s little cock in a display that made John want to sob.

“God,” Sherlock let them both go, and propped himself up on his forearms, shaking. “Are you alright?”

John nodded, his eyes closing. “Yeah. Yeah, very.”

Sherlock kissed his forehead. “I’ll get you cleaned up.”

“Ok…” John could have fallen asleep. It was as though the planets had aligned, or something.

He felt at peace.

 

*

 

“Afternoon, John,” Mycroft said, once Sherlock let him in.

“Hey,” John looked up from his book, going red, as he was sure Mycroft could smell sex in the air, even though John had insisted on opening all the windows and washing the sheets in the aftermath of their morning frottage. “You ok?”

“I believe the phrase is ‘been better’,” Mycroft took a seat.

“What’s the matter with you now?” Sherlock sighed, taking the opposite armchair. “Please don’t tell me it’s anything to do with you and Lestrade.”

“No,” Mycroft crossed his legs. “I’ve just come from the reading of our father’s will.”

Sherlock looked up. “What?”

“I didn’t see the need to tell you about it, as Mummy and I would be the key inheritants,” Mycroft said. “But, apparently, there are a few Siger-esq caveats.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

John closed his book.

“As the will stands, Eurus and Sherry are entitled to nothing. I intend to keep their trust funds filled and invested,” Mycroft said. “I presume you don’t object?”

“Of course not.”

“Your trust fund is secure,” Mycroft went on, “as is mine. Mummy has her own funds, and the sale of the manor, which is to come.”

“So, what is the issue?” Sherlock snapped. “Come on.”

Mycroft glanced at John. “It appears that there is more to your bonding contract than we first anticipated.”

John sat up, feeling an empty sort of coldness sink down inside him. “What do you mean?”

Mycroft took some papers out of his bag, separated them, and handed one set to John, the other to Sherlock. “It appears that there are requirements that must be fulfilled. One of which is…”

“Higher education?” John read what was in front of him. “That’s… what? I’m down to do A-Levels, already?”

“The specifics are detailed,” Mycroft nodded at the small print. “It appears that Siger’s desire to keep you out of school, John, go further than his simple threats. As part of the negotiations with your parents, they agreed that should you enrol into any University, your bond with Sherlock would be void. John is blacklisted from application.”

“You can’t void a bond,” Sherlock snorted. “It’s not a legal contract, it’s – it’s emotional. Soulful.”

“You can void legal responsibility,” Mycroft said. “That means that John’s children would not be Holmes’. That means that, if John studied a degree, that anyone would be legally free to claim him and override a bond. That means that John, and his children, would not be entitled to any money, any status, any protection… they would be alphaless bastards, and John would be a fallen omega.”

John couldn’t see the paper in his hands, anymore. “That’s… Sherlock wouldn’t…”

Sherlock looked at him. “John, I would never leave you. Even if our bond wasn’t legal, I would never –”

“John would be an alphaless mother,” Mycroft repeated.

“I don’t even want children,” John said. “What is this? I…” he threw the papers down. “I’m going to uni. I’m going to be a doctor. Ok? I’m doing it.”

Mycroft shook his head. “Your name is blacklisted, John. You can’t apply to any institution without automatic rejection. I’m sorry.”

“Get me un-blacklisted,” John snapped. “You’re in charge of everything, aren’t you? Sort it out!”

“I am not all-powerful!”

“You fucking act like you are!” John stood, seeing black dots burst in front of his vision. “Get this set right!”

“John, this has been in place since you were ten years old – I can’t change this, I can’t –”

Sherlock was up, his hands full of Mycroft’s suit, fury radiating over his face. “You have to try, Mycroft. You have to sort this out – John has to be a doctor, he has to study – he is intelligent and kind, and he does not deserve this!”

“This isn’t my fault,” Mycroft shoved him off. “I came to tell you so you can try and make alternative plans!”

“There’s no alternative!” John shouted. “I’m going! Fuck you, and your fucking rapist of a dad. He’s not going to ruin my life. He’s not!” He kicked over the coffee table, and marched up to his old bedroom, slamming the door so hard the frame splintered.

 


	23. Chapter 23

“This is bull – ridiculous,” John stopped himself from swearing at the solicitor, who looked downright weary at having to speak to an omega. The alpha man was looking down his nose at John as though he’d rather be talking to a turnip. He had, so far, directed all his comments and questions to Sherlock and Mycroft. It had taken months to even get to this point – John had just finished his GCSEs, and was anxious to know whether applying to Sixth Form was going to be a waste of his time.

“I understand you must be upset, Master Watson –”

“It doesn’t make sense,” John interrupted. “He’s dead, why do you have to listen to him, anymore?”

“We have to take into account your welfare as an omega,” the solicitor shrugged. “Surely you don’t think a university campus is a safe place for an unbonded young man like yourself?”

“I don’t have heats, I’m on the fucking pill,” John snapped, going red. “I can just stay on it.”

Sherlock tensed, but didn’t say anything. John knew why. He’d already been on the pill for a year. When he got to Uni it would be three years. Add another three years of a basic undergrad, or five for medical training, and his fertility would be ruined, and possibly other aspects of his health, too.

Sherlock said, instead: “What if John and I were to bond? What then?”

John looked at him.

“You will struggle to find any institution that accepts a bonded omega, even without this order,” the solicitor drawled, sitting back in his ergonomic chair. “The drop-out rate for pregnancy would be too high, plus all the time off you need for your… heats.”

“I’d just…” John stopped himself. Even an over-the-counter contraceptive would eventually make him ill. He could take an after-heat pill every time, but he could be having a week off a month, if he did that. He looked up at Sherlock, feeling helpless.

Sherlock took his hand.

They left the office with no more answers than they arrived with. John felt exhausted, and just sat in the back of the car and listened as Mycroft promised to look into the application process, and Sherlock started listing MPs and people in government he would write to.

John wondered why. He wasn’t worth bothering about.

After everything that had happened, all his and Sherlock and Mycroft’s efforts to look after him, get him out of the manor, save him from Siger, get over his nightmares and achieve well in school… it was all pointless. He was still going to amount to nothing.

He made a fist.

No. He wasn’t going to let that happen. He’d find a way, if he had to change his name and flee the country, John Watson would be a doctor.

If it killed him.

 

*

 

“I wish we weren’t so useless,” Sherlock said, in bed, a few weeks later. He’d written his letters, and received a few half-arsed replies, but no promises. Mycroft was still battling with the bigger beast of general admissions, which seemed to have the same reservations as the solicitor – why would any _normal_ omega want to study like that?

“It’s not you,” John turned to face him. “It’s really not. You’re trying.”

“Not hard enough.”

“I’m sorry I shouted that,” John said, remembering his outburst of the previous day, in Tesco. “I’m just… angry.”

“So you should be,” Sherlock opened his arms, and John snuggled up close, breathing in Sherlock’s scent, his warmth, his honesty. “I would be, too. I never… I took it for granted. What I had. I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault,” John nosed at Sherlock’s throat, kissing over his scent gland spot, giving it a tiny lick to taste his love’s skin. “We – we’ve got a couple of years. Mrs Rivers says I can attend Sixth Form, and see how it goes.”

“…however did she become a teacher?”

John sighed. “I asked her. Sent her an email She said she did a community-training course, going to uni to do her exams, and see a mentor. It’s… called a GTC, or something. Work whilst you train. It means… she didn’t apply to a university institution, so by-passed the admissions crap. I don’t think there’s anything like that for doctors...”

Sherlock stroked down John’s back. “A little clarity earlier on, and we might be in a better position, now.”

“I know. I… I got a bit angry, with her, after I left. Took it out on the rugger team.”

“Hm, I bet they enjoyed that.”

“Tony Davidson didn’t. I barrelled him straight in the bollocks. He won’t be able to stand for a week.”

Sherlock laughed softly, his soft touches making John relax. “I suppose they’re glad you’re staying.”

“Yeah,” John eased onto Sherlock’s front, settling so they were nose to nose. “Coach doesn’t want to search for a new fly-half. And the lads don’t fancy lifting anyone heavier.”

“You’re not as little as you were,” Sherlock pointed out, giving John’s firm arse a squeeze.

“No,” John arched into the touch, “but neither are they.”

Sherlock pouted. “You know, hearing about the alpha boys you let lift you up and tackle you about… it makes me…”

“Jealous?”

“Mm.”

John grinned. “Good, it’s working.”

“Ha,” Sherlock grinned wickedly, trapping John in a hug. “Well, that’s it, then. I’ll call the school and say you’re off the team.”

“You monster!”

“No, it’s settled. Can’t have my – the omega I love being thrown about a muddy field by other alphas.”

John wriggled to get away, secretly delighted at how Sherlock had corrected himself. He was no one’s property. Not yet.

He wriggled deliberately over Sherlock’s crotch, making the alpha tense and moan a bit at the sensation, which in turn made John’s cock begin to stir.

They’d gone a bit further with one another in the days since the university bombshell had dropped, as if they could override the universe simply by making love to one another. There was an ease to what they did, now, verbal consent giving way to simply _knowing_ one another, though Sherlock seemed to enjoy John vocalising what he wanted. John had almost lost his mind the first time Sherlock took him into his mouth, and made Mrs Hudson bang on her ceiling as he made more noise than was apparently acceptable. He’d kept both hands clamped over his mouth the time Sherlock had gently slid two extremely-lubricated fingers inside him, making him almost panic at the full sensation until Sherlock touched something inside him that made him ejaculate on the spot.

John touched Sherlock’s nose with his own, now, smiling in the dark as Sherlock’s hands loosened, and ran down his back, stopping at the waistband of his pants. John leaned down, and gently kissed the alpha, tiny little caresses of lips on lips that sent pleasurable shivers over John’s body, made Sherlock’s hand slip beneath the elastic of John’s underwear, stroke softly at the top of the cleft of his arse.

“Mm,” John kissed firmer, before breaking it. “Can you get…”

“Sure.” Sherlock reached into the bedside drawer, and took out a tube squeezed half-empty.

John waited until Sherlock had dropped it beside them before going back for more kisses, this time letting his legs drop either side of Sherlock’s body, opening his pelvis up so Sherlock’s touches, though still dry, stroked down over the tight, soft skin of his entrance, and the twists of hair of his perineum. John let out a shaky breath at the promise of what was to come.

“If you get some… I’ll get my pants?”

“Deal.”

There was a moment of awkward undressing as they both kicked off their underwear, and Sherlock covered his fingers in lube as John settled back over him, this time no cloth barrier between them. Their erections pressed together in a heat that felt right, and John rocked against Sherlock for a moment, making the alpha swear under his breath. The thrust felt almost unnatural – John wasn’t designed by nature for thrusting and penetrating in the same way, and his hips were wider than a beta or alpha’s – but the fact he could do it, and feel that skin-on-skin-over-hardness thill made him dizzy.

Sherlock noticed his cheeky look, and thrust up against him, making John’s hands slip on his chest as the omega gasped. “You look so perfect,” Sherlock breathed.

“I know,” John grinned, leaning back down to kiss him, parting his legs and keeping his arse as accessible as possible, feeling positively lewd, though the dark kept him modest. “Slow, ok?”

Sherlock nodded, chasing John’s lips again as his fingers touched over John’s entrance.

The lubricant made the touch cold, and John squeaked before Sherlock massaged the stuff into his skin, spreading it over his tight hole. The soft pad of Sherlock’s middle finger swirled over John’s skin, from his balls to the crack of his arse, lubricating every bit of him, turning touches into caresses, easing the press of fingers seeking penetration.

“One,” John breathed, blowing through his lips as Sherlock’s middle finger pushed easily inside him.

Sherlock gave a soft moan, rolling his hips against John as he pressed a digit inside, flexing, feeling the soft wetness of John’s insides. Though John would get wet naturally, they’d both agreed that the wetter the better was the way to go, and the lube made it so much easier to begin to slide in and out of John’s hole, his strong muscles clamping and releasing the single finger, moving steadily out almost to the tip before plunging back into the sweet vacuum that soon had John whispering: “Two.”

Double the thickness, double the sensation, that had John quietly rocking against Sherlock’s cock, Sherlock’s fingers staying still as John gently fucked himself on them, taking more inside each time until Sherlock’s palm was flat against his skin. John gasped as Sherlock’s touch curled inside him, brushing over that sensitive bump, making John’s inside clench, then release in a rush of natural slick, his entrance relaxing in need, socking Sherlock’s hand.

“Oh, fuck,” John buried his head in the curve of Sherlock’s throat, moaning as Sherlock repeated the action, an alpha rumble of lust in his throat as more slick trickled out, the soft squelching noise meeting the air as he finger-fucked John with a trembling hand.

And then –

“Ohhhh….” John’s mouth dropped open as Sherlock slid in a third finger. They’d only done this twice before, both times leaving John limp and wrung out on the bed as Sherlock came over his skin in desperation as the sight of the omega taking so much. “God, Sherlock, that’s it… That’s… god, move, please, fuck…”

Sherlock didn’t need telling twice, pumping his hand so his fingers pushed in deep, their coned touch stretching John only minutely, his omega instincts seeking something larger. Sherlock could only imagine what John would be like in a heat. The thought made the alpha’s hips buck hard, thrusting against John’s body in need, a smear of pre-come swiping over John’s stomach.

“God,” John turned his head, inhaling Sherlock’s scent like a drug, his own cock throbbing at the friction, but needing something else. “I…”

He sat up, shakily, pushing himself upright, Sherlock’s fingers staying inside him as he did so, straddling Sherlock’s hips, his own cock jutting in need, Sherlock’s larger one on the alpha’s stomach, twitching, and glistening at the glans, visible even in the dark of the room.

John took a breath, and gripped the base of Sherlock’s cock, feeling the lump-like swelling at the base that would expand into a knot before too long. The omega went up onto his knees, and shuffled forward, making his intentions quite clear. His heart was hammering, and he was trembling with nerves, but he needed this. He wanted it, so badly slick was trickling from his insides, a drip running down the back of one of his thighs.

“John?” Sherlock’s eyes went wide. “John…”

“Don’t… thrust,” John said, pressing Sherlock’s cock between his legs, and feeling the hot hardness press against his lubed-up skin. “Just let me –”

“Wait,” Sherlock said, his voice sounding utterly strangled. “Wait.” He grabbed the lube bottle and managed to squirt some onto his fingers before touching himself, slicking up his cock, getting some on John’s hand. “Might – be – easier,” he forced out.

“Uh-huh,” John let out a shaky breath as he pressed the head of the alpha cock to his entrance, letting out a cry at how good even that touch felt. He braced himself with a hand on Sherlock’s hard stomach, and slowly lowered himself, keeping hold of Sherlock’s length as the very head pressed against, then inside him as his entrance gave way, accepting the hard penetration, making the omega moan at the fullness.

“Does it hurt –”

“No,” John shook his head. “No, just… don’t move.”

Sherlock gripped the bedsheets as John rocked his pelvis, slowly  moving down, taking more of Sherlock inside himself, feeling the dull ache at his entrance increase, then turn to a throb that meant it was far enough.

“Fuck,” John breathed, keeping his hands still, one of Sherlock’s belly, the other on however much of the alpha’s cock stayed outside his body. “Oh, fuck. You’re inside me… Oh, jesus.”

“John,” Sherlock moved a hand to touch John’s thigh, his belly, his cock, gently stroking over his length. “John, I love you so much. Oh…” He swallowed audibly. “Do you need me to stay still, because I honestly  -”

“Move,” John nodded. “Don’t – just gentle –”

Sherlock nodded, putting his hands on John’s hips, giving the tiniest thrust inside, before withdrawing and moving inside him again, shallowly, letting John adjust to the sensation, getting the worried grip of his insides relax, as Sherlock moved within him, pushing against that sweet spot, pressing further inside with each thrust.

John let his legs give way, gradually settling on Sherlock’s pelvis, sweat running down his neck as he rocked back and forth, riding the alpha in an inexperienced motion led by a chase for pleasure.

“I’m so deep inside you,” Sherlock moaned. “Oh god, John….” He thrust up harder.

“No,” John said, feeling the knot press against his arse. “Can’t do that.”

“Sorry,” Sherlock reached for him, pulling him down for a kiss, increasing the pace of his movements, his cock sliding in and out of John’s hole as though it was designed for it, slick running out with every squelching thrust and slap of skin that made John wail, his orgasm catching him off-guard, his cock pulsing useless fluid over Sherlock’s stomach, his insides clenching on the thick invasion, making the alpha thrust hard once – twice – and then groan as John gasped, Sherlock’s cock pulsing inside him, flooding his insides with come, a knot pressed against his entrance, though not breaching as Sherlock came, and came, spilling his seed into the omega with moans that turned into sobs for them both, the two of them ending up a tangle of limbs, Sherlock covering every inch of John in kisses as the exhausted omega tried hard not to fall straight into the arms of sleep.

 

*

 

“Take a leaflet, boys, there you go,” the careers fair was in full swing on the first day of September. John and Ryan were the only two omegas attending Sixth Form, and they collected flyers as they walked through the hallways, not really paying attention to what was on them.

“Here you go, lads – oh, I’m sorry,” someone snatched a leaflet back out of John’s hand. “Sorry, mate, I didn’t see you’re an omega.”

“What’s that?” John snatched it back and turned, out of reach, to read it.

 

DISCOVER YOUR TRUE POTENTIAL

JOIN HRH ARMED FORCES

ALL GENDERS AND AGES CONSIDERED

 

Available routes include:

 

TERRITORIAL ARMY

ROYAL AIR FORCE

BRITISH ROYAL NAVY

ROYAL MEDICAL CORPS

ENGINEERS

SPECIAL FORCES

 

And more! See our website for recruitment details.

 

“Thanks,” John said, shoving past the man and heading to a quiet corner to re-read the leaflet. There was one option on the list that had caught his eye.


	24. Chapter 24

John didn’t show the leaflet to Sherlock right away. He wasn’t stupid – he knew it would be met with raised eyebrows and worry, and he wanted to have all the information he could before putting forth his proposal. He went onto the website, and read through the information, though he still had a lot of questions. There seemed to be a lot of focus on careers, and not a lot of mention of the fact that you’d be a soldier. He put in his postcode, and saw there was a recruitment evening in a few weeks, and put his name down.

“You look happy,” Sherlock mentioned, one night, as he looked at John over their dinner. “You glad to be back at school?”

John felt his neck go red. “Um. Yeah, kind of. I’ve been thinking more about – about Uni and stuff… Looking at vocational courses.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, but nodded. “That’s an idea, if you can find something you… like the look of.”

John nodded, and twirled his fork in his pasta.

The recruitment evening was held the day before Halloween. John passed a few kids dressed up, and had to smile at the masks and cloaks – it was the older kids who caused trouble, the little ones just wanted their sweets. He’d told Sherlock he was ‘going out’, but hadn’t given a location.

Guilt gnawed at his insides all the way to the town hall. He hadn’t lied to Sherlock, but you couldn’t deny he had deceived him. Why hadn’t he just said ‘I’m going to an Army recruitment evening’.

 _You know why_ , a voice in his head said. _Because he won’t like it_.

If he won’t like it, why am I going?

_Because you have to. You want to be a doctor, this might be your only chance._

John grit his teeth, and signed in at the front desk, taking a set in the meeting hall, at the back of the room. The place was half full already, and the scent that assaulted John’s nostrils was almost exclusively alpha males. There was the odd beta walked past him, but as far as he could tell, he was the only omega in the place.

_All genders considered._

Considered, not accepted.

John bit his lip as the place filled up to around two thirds full. Some young men had brought their parents with them, but most, like John, had come by themselves.

“Anyone sitting here?”

John looked up at a man in uniform, a small smile on his face. Beta. Thirties. Kind face. “Oh, sure. I mean, no, it’s not taken.”

“Thanks.” The man took a seat, then offered a hand. “Captain Joe Crossland.”

“John Watson,” John shook the hand. “Are you… part of the talk?”

“Sort of, I’ll be taking questions later, during the refreshments,” Joe smiled. “You nervous?”

“That obvious, is it?” John forced a laugh.

“Don’t worry, we were all in your shoes, once.”

“Not quite,” John winced.

Joe raised an eyebrow, but didn’t reply as an alpha soldier built like a brick outhouse took the plinth, and started to speak.

John didn’t remember much of it, taking a few notes on his pad about deployment (scary) and physicals (he was fit enough, he was sure), and pensions (for old people, surely?). He didn’t hear anything about the Royal Medical Corps.

“That’s the basics,” the alpha soldier barked. “Now, if you’d like to help youselves to a drink, myself, Captain Crossland – ”

Joe raised a hand.

“-and Lance Corporal Smith will be on hand to answer any questions.”

There was a smattering of applause, and the audience got up, and started chattering to one another. John just looked at his notepad.

“You ok, Mr Watson?”

“Mm,” John mumbled to the soldier beside him. “Can I ask… do you know much about the Royal Medical Corps?”

Joe nodded. “That’s where I serve. I’m Dr Crossland, as well as ‘Captain’.”

John’s face lit up. “Oh, brilliant. I… Well, I guess it’s pretty obvious I’m – I’m an omega,” he lowered his voice, “and I want to do medical training, but…”

“Universities don’t want to know?”

“Something like that.”

The doctor-captain nodded. “Well, you can get a medical degree in the army. Qualifies you the same as an institution of high learning. So, if you have to retire, you can still be a doctor in general practice, or hospital, or what have you.”

John tried not to look too excited. “So – so I can apply? Even if I’m…”

“Didn’t stop me,” Joe winked.

John frowned in confusion, then inhaled, trying to smell past the beta smell. It was there, just a hint.

Omega.

“Oh…” John breathed. “How?”

Joe glanced up at the rest of the room. “You’re on the pill, aren’t you? I can smell it.”

“Yes,” John admitted.

“Well, you know it messes you up, after a few years?”

“Oh god, it made you a beta?” John gasped, losing his head completely.

“No, don’t be daft. I meant that there’s things you can get, in the army, that work differently. You can get a different kind of pill. Military-use only. Blocks your scent, contraceptive, and heat-prevention. And you can take it for a long time.”

John stared. “Oh…”

“Bit of an open secret,” Joe said. “Lots of higher-ups don’t like omegas joining. But if you can get your application in, I’d be happy to give you a reference.”

“You don’t know me, though?” John asked.

“I know you’re me, fifteen years ago,” Joe said. “I had to claw my way up through TAs and sneaking in when the betas doctors were doing medicals, and I was off my head on scent-blockers. Damn near killed myself. I swore I’d be there for any other omega who wanted to do what I do. And when I saw you come in… I want to help you, John. If you’ll let me. How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

Joe nodded. “You can apply next school year, then. You live at home?”

“I live with… my boyfriend,” John said, looking down suddenly.

“Not bonded?”

“No… would that make a difference?”

“Not to your application,” Joe said, “but it’s a lot to ask an alpha to tolerate. But, on the other hand, it means there’s no danger of you bonding with anyone else, either.”

“I don’t want anyone else,” John said, quietly. “But… I don’t know what he’ll think of this.”

“Ah. Maybe talk to him, yeah?” Joe stood, and took a card from his belt. “Put my name on your application. And get those good grades, yeah? Army doctor is still a doctor. We want As.”

“Thank you,” John took the card. “I will do.”

 

*

 

The original leaflet was now very crumpled and creased, especially alongside the new information pack John had picked up, but he couldn’t hide the folder he’d come home with. He had to own up.

Sherlock was doing something at the chemistry set when John walked in.

“Hey,” John said.

“Working.”

“So I see,” John put the folder down on the end of the table. “Can – can we have a chat, Sherlock?”

“As soon as I’m not distilling acid.”

“Can you distil acid later?”

“Not really. Lestrade wants me to figure out how –”

“Right,” John picked his things up. “I’ll talk to you later, then.”

“I might be late to bed,” Sherlock added, his eyes never moving from the test tube he held up, eyes obscured by goggles. “If I make it.”

“Don’t worry about it,” John closed the bedroom door behind him.

 

*

 

And then, somehow, it was John’s birthday again, and he still hadn’t said anything.

And the longer he left it, the worse it was going to be.

“Driving lessons?” John grinned as he opened the slim envelope Sherlock said was his ‘big present’. “Sherlock, that’s fantastic, thank you!”

“You’re welcome,” Sherlock kissed his temple. “It’s an intensive course, meant to have a good pass rate.”

“I can’t afford a car, but whatever,” John looked over the booking confirmation. “This is great. Thanks, Sherlock.” He turned, and hugged the alpha properly, sliding into his lap as their kisses started again, turning from teasing to needy. “Mm,” John leaned back. “We’re supposed to be going out.”

“Then we’ll be quick,” Sherlock countered, going to kiss at John’s neck, making the omega shudder and lean into the scenting, the tiny licks and nips.

“Mrs Hudson…” John glanced at the door.

“Good point,” Sherlock stilled. “We should move off the sofa.” And he picked John up, keeping his legs around his waist, and carried him into the bedroom.

John sighed, and lay back on the bed as Sherlock pulled off his trousers and pants, down to his ankles, and licked up his hardening cock.

“Sherlock…”

“Just lay back, John.” Sherlock kissed the flush pink glans before suckling gently at it, pushing John’s foreskin down with his tongue and lips, mimicking soft penetration that made John moan, before taking him further into his mouth.

John cried out, and bucked his hips before Sherlock clamped strong hands down on his pelvis to hold him still. John put a hand over his mouth to stifle the moans that Sherlock drew from him as his tongue swirled, mouth sucked, and head bobbed, bringing John to a quick and dirty orgasm, straight into the alpha’s mouth.

Sherlock swallowed with a wince, never having gotten used to the texture, and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand as John went scarlet, reaching to try and yank his trousers back up.

“You’re impossible,” John said, meaning in like a compliment.

Sherlock grinned. “Fast enough?”

“Yeah… You look like you’re struggling, though,” John nodded at the bulge straining in Sherlock’s trousers. “D’you want me to –”

“No, wait until we get home,” Sherlock said. “It’ll do me good to learn patience, for once.”

The doorbell rang. “That’ll be Mycroft,” John stood quickly, tucking himself back into his trousers, and trying to smooth his hair back down. “Shit, is it obvious –”

“Probably, but I don’t care,” Sherlock said.

“I do,” John pointed out.

“Then let’s pretend to be out.”

“No,” John rolled his eyes, “he might break in. Let’s go, and get this over with.”

 

*

 

Easter break came. And John had to bite the bullet. He was revising for his summer exams, and the anxiety of his secrets plans was eating him alive. He was waking up with stomach cramps, sharp pains in his chest and aching joints as he thought about the hidden booklets in his sock drawer. Mycroft and Sherlock were still looking into Uni for him, but their efforts had tailed off. Probably because John had stopped going on about it. They must have thought e was over the idea.

Far from it.

He sat in the bedroom, holding the thick folder, the leaflet folded into four, on the top.

He couldn’t stand.

What if Sherlock was upset?

What if he got angry?

John couldn’t stand the thought. The ‘what if’s were almost as bad as keeping the whole things a secret.

He had to say.

He forced his legs to work, standing up and taking one step, then another, through the bedroom, out the door, past the kitchen, to Sherlock, working at the desk by the window.

John didn’t say anything.

He just walked over, and put the folder down behind Sherlock’s laptop, and the tatty leaflet on top of his typing hands.

Sherlock frowned. “What’s this?” He picked it up.

“Something I want to do,” John almost whispered.

Sherlock looked confused, then read the faded words on the flyer.

He went very still. Then very pale.

His eyes widened, and he took a huge breath, shoving his chair back as he stood in shock, holding the paper, looking from it to John as though one of them might disappear.

“The – the army?”

John nodded.

Sherlock made a spluttering noise. “You… this is what you were talking about? A different way of training?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock laughed.

John went red. “Why are you laughing, I’m serious!”

“John, this… you’re an omega.”

“And?” John crossed his arms. “They accept all genders. It says so.”

“They probably have to say that,” Sherlock waved a hand. “They’d never –”

“I met one,” John snapped. “An omega army doctor. I met him, at a recruitment evening.”

Sherlock’s face fell. “When did you go to this?”

“…months ago.”

Sherlock stared.

“I didn’t say anything at the time, because I knew you’d try and talk me out of it,” John went on. “And then… it just got harder to try and say. But I’m going to apply. For as soon as I finish A-Levels. I’m going to do it, Sherlock, I’m going to be a doctor.”

“No, you’ll be a _soldier_ ,” Sherlock dropped the leaflet. “Getting shot at and injured or killed – John –” he reached for him, “John, I don’t… I don’t want you to do this.”

“You said I should put training to be a doctor over _anything_ ,” John said, his throat pinching. “You said.”

“I didn’t mean join the army!” Sherlock exclaimed. “John, you could be killed!”

“Or I could die a miserable omega mother who amounted to nothing more than a mate,” John said. “Is that what you want?”

“Of course not –”

“Then what’s your problem?”

“My problem is that joining the armed forces is _not_ an alternative to university!”

“It’s my only alternative,” John was getting tearful, now. “It’s the only chance I’ve got. Sherlock, I’ve wanted to be a doctor since I was eight. This is the only chance I’m going to get.”

“But…” Sherlock looked helpless. “But John… the army… all those alphas…”

“There’s a drug you can take,” John said. “I’m not joining up to be some sort of camp follower.”

“But –”

“I still want to be with you,” John said. “Sherlock, I love you. But I can’t sit at home loving you and doing nothing else. You understand that, don’t you?”

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose. “John, I love you too… you can’t ask me to sit back happily and wave you off to go and be bloody well shot at!”

“It’s the Royal Medical Corps,” John said. “I’d be patching up other people more than I’d be on the front line.” He wasn’t sure about that, but it sounded good.

Sherlock looked down at the information pack. “I do not want you to do this. That’s my stance. I do not want you to enlist.”

John stared, and then nodded. “Right, then. Thanks for your support, Sherlock.” He moved to pick up his things.

Sherlock reached for him, and John moved away, holding the folders against his chest. “John…”

“Don’t make me choose,” John’s voice cracked, “between this and you. Please. Don’t make me choose, because it’s going to kill me.”

“I want you,” Sherlock said. “John, I want to bond with you, I want you to be my mate, but I’ve never pushed you to come off your pill, and I have tried to help you find somewhere to study, but I can’t be ok with this. I can’t stand by and watch you go to war. I can’t.”

John looked at him. “Looks like you’ve chosen, then.”

 

*

 

The folders went back into the drawer.

John didn’t mention the army again.

And when his Year 12 results came in that summer, he waited until Sherlock was off galivanting with Lestrade one night, opened his own laptop, and clicked through to a website he’d never used before.

 

APPLICATION FOR ENLISTMENT

HRH ARMED FORCES

ROYAL MEDICAL CORPS.

BASIC TRAINING

 

Name: …

 

He took a deep breath, and started typing.

 


	25. Chapter 25

“I don’t want to let you go.”

John stroked a finger down Sherlock’s cheek. “I wouldn’t go if I had a choice.”

“You do.”

“No,” John said firmly. “I don’t. Not if I want to get where I want to be.”

Sherlock caught John’s hand. “This doesn’t have to be the answer.”

John sighed. “Are we going to have this argument every month?”

“We’d have it more often if it didn’t mean a week of sulking, afterwards,” Sherlock rolled his eyes as John settled on top of him, chasing the shape of his cheekbones, nose, lips and mouth with a fingertip. Trying to memorise him.

“You could just be ok with it,” John pointed out.

Sherlock looked at the ceiling. “You know I’m never going to be.”

John puffed out a breath, and rested his cheek on Sherlock’s chest, listening to his heart. A year since it had first been mentioned, and they only talked about John’s enlistment in the dark. As if it was less real, that way. As if the dark was like a blanket, keeping reality out and their own private universe in.

Sherlock stroked over John’s hair, running a hand down his bare back. “I love you so much.”

“I know you do,” John whispered. “I just wish that was enough.”

Because it wasn’t.

For so long, John had longed for love. Had longed for a relationship where he was not used and abused, and was respected as an equal, not just a _womb on legs_ , as Eurus had once said he would be. He had found it, it seemed, with Sherlock. Sherlock, the alpha with a kind heart, the one who kept John safe, who warmed him at night, who drew pleasure from his body. The alpha who didn’t push him for a family, who had encouraged him to study… but wasn’t willing to make the final step, and let John go, and be what he was – in his mind – born to be.

John couldn’t survive on just love. Love, and domesticity, and heats and children before he was twenty. He needed academic stimulation – he got very high marks at school – and he needed to be able to help people. It was what he had always wanted.

Why couldn’t Sherlock understand that?

Why couldn’t he see that John would come back to him?

 

*

 

“John Watson,” the medical examiner said, looking over his glasses at him. “Eighteen, unbonded omega…”

“Yep,” John licked his lips nervously. He’d come for his medical on his own, though Sherlock knew it was happening. The alpha had declined to accompany him, choosing to flounce out of the flat, instead, in a whirlwind of alpha scent and annoyance.

“I have to say, without being able to smell you, I’d’ve put you down for beta,” the doctor said, making a note. “You’re big for your age.”

“I’m only five four,” John said, embarrassed.

“I meant width-wise. Are you sporty?”

“I play rugby,” John said as the blood-pressure cuff was wrapped around his arm. “I run…”

“Well, basic training won’t come as a total shock, then,” the doctor pressed and button on his desk, and the cuff tightened. “When was your last heat, John?”

“Um… three years ago,” John admitted, noticing his blood pressure spike before levelling out.

The doctor looked up. “You’re on the pill, then?”

“Yeah.”

“We’ll have to get that swapped out for you. Are you in a relationship?”

“Yes,” John admitted, his blood pressure rocketing again as the doctor removed the cuff. “He’s… an alpha.”

The doctor nodded, musing to himself. “If I’m going to recommend you as a pass, John, you need to switch onto the military-issued shot. That means, you’ll have to stop taking the pill you’re on. Have a heat, naturally, and then come back for your jab before you get the bus to Catterick.”

John blanched. “A heat?”

“Yes, we need to get a cycle out of you before you can switch drugs. You’ve got just enough time, I think.”

“But… I live with an alpha,” John said. “He’ll bite me. I’ll – I’ll be bonded.”

“Is that so bad?” the doctor asked.

 _You’re a beta_ , John thought, _you don’t understand_. “But how can I enlist when that happens?”

“It won’t affect your application. Captain Crossland has given you an excellent recommendation.”

“That’s not what I mean,” John said. “I meant… how can I walk away from my mate?”

The doctor looked over at him. “You need to ask yourself how badly you want this, John. How badly you want to be an army doctor. Is it more than you want a mate?”

“It’s not a case of wanting,” John said, his voice hurting, “it’s… I love him. If we’re bonded… I might kill him, if I leave. He’d never forgive me. Never.”

The doctor signed something on the application, and tore off the transfer sheets beneath and handed them to John. “You need to make a choice, John. The last bus to Catterick leaves in four days. If you have a heat, it will last three days, I’d assume. We can get you an after-heat pill, and you must take it – you cannot enlist if you’re pregnant, and they will make you do a test. Your heat will be very intense, and likely come on instantly, since you’ve been on the pill for so long. What time do you take your tablet?”

“Six pm,” John said.

“If you make it to ten without going into heat I’d be shocked. You’re a good student, John. Your teachers have said you follow instructions, and your physical has given you a big tick. You just need to take this last step. It’s now, or never.”

 

*

 

John put his uniform in the upstairs bedroom – the room that was his, when they first moved into Baker Street. It looked odd – the shirts had all had to be taken in as they were sewn for alpha shoulders and waists. The camo trousers looked garish against the white bedding. The boots (ordered specially in for John’s size five feet) looked like industrial vehicles parked on the floor.

He came down the stairs, and checked himself in the mirror in his normal clothes, trying to imagine what he would look like. He’d try it on, but he was worried about Sherlock coming home unexpected, and seeing him. He gave himself a good looking-at.

He was eighteen. Not shaving – but that wasn’t unusual for omegas. He had blond hair, a roundish face and slightly snub nose that Sherlock said looked ‘cute’. He was on the thin side, though heavy and wide for an omega, thanks to his active life and his ability to eat almost anything set in front of him.

But he didn’t look like a soldier.

He just looked like… John.

His alarm bleeped for six.

It was time. He had to skip his pill, and have a heat that day, get it over with.

And the thought hurt him. Hurt him deep inside, where he didn’t know you could feel hurt like that.

Because it wasn’t fair to Sherlock. Sherlock needed warning, what was going to happen. That, if he stayed in the house, if he came home and inhaled the pheromones John’s heat would give off, he and John would end up bonding.

John made a fist. He wouldn’t say no, if Sherlock wanted to bond with him. It was what he wanted – had wanted for a while, now. But all this uni and army stuff had gotten in the way. They’d not really spoken of it, more than Sherlock’s tearful confession last year.

John wanted it. Wanted to be Sherlock’s mate.

But Sherlock was already against letting John go. Letting his mate go might be more than he could bear.

Sherlock deserved the choice.

But he was going to come home to John going into heat.

It took away his choice.

It took away his agency.

John had to warn him. He was shaking as he took out his phone, and wrote a message through watery eyes.

 

**Sherlock –**

**I went for my medical, today. I passed, which was nice.**

**I leave, on Friday.**

**That’s sooner than I thought.**

**They want me to stop taking my pill, so I can have this new one.**

**That means I’m going to have a heat. Probably starting tonight.**

**I’m telling you, because I don’t want you to feel like you have to be here. You don’t have to come home, if you don’t want. I want you to, I really do, but I know what’ll happen. I know what we’ll end up being, if you come home.**

**But I’ll still have to leave.**

**I understand if you want to stay away.**

**But I hope you come home.**

**I love you. So much.**

**Your John xxxx**

He sent the message, and pressed his phone against his head, hating himself for a moment before going into the kitchen, and grabbing a few plastic bottles of water, and some energy bars. He took them into the bedroom, and waited nervously for the pain to begin.

And when it did, he cried out in shock at the sheer agony of three years of staved-off heats.

 

*

 

John checked his phone at midnight, struggling to see the time in his queasy state. He’d made it until ten pm before admitting he was too far gone to risk leaving the flat, and had spent more time than seemed realistic in the bathroom before dragging himself back into the bedroom, his limbs shaking.

Sherlock had not replied to the message.

John, alpha-less and alone, had stripped naked, and dragged the covers off the bed as he bent double, trying to ride out the empty cramping inside himself, eventually giving in to sinking three fingers inside himself, wailing in fright at how loose his entrance felt, how hot his skin was, how wet he was.

Surely, this wasn’t normal?

He moaned, pressing his face into Sherlock’s pillow and inhaling, rutting against the mattress as he came, uselessly, the urge subsiding for only a few minutes – giving John time to down half a bottle of water – before it returned as strong as ever, taking over his insides, and sending aching pain through his body, so it radiated down his legs.

And still, Sherlock did not come.

Slick trickled down John’s legs, and then gushed, making the omega shake in shame and embarrassment, sobbing as his fingers felt like less and less use, his cock sore and chaffed already.

Three years of avoiding heats was taking its toll. John’s body was overwhelmed, desperate for an alpha, desperate for a knot, a mate, and finding nothing.

John fell off the bed onto the floor, landing hard and winding himself before dragging his phone down off the bedside table.

03:16

John burst into tears. Only five hours in, and he felt more than ready to give up. This was awful. How did other omegas go through this so many times? It was almost worth having a baby just to make it stop for a few months.

Babies…

John smiled, involuntarily, imaging himself with a baby, two, one in each arm, and a full belly, stretched and round and beautiful, Sherlock’s alpha kisses at his throat as he cradled his family.

The thought made John croon softly, then sob again as his insides convulsed, searching for the cock, the knot, that would provide the family he suddenly wanted – and not finding it.

He’d given Sherlock the choice.

And Sherlock had chosen not to come.

He didn’t want John.

He didn’t want him.

 

*

 

John was asleep, or unconscious, at least, when the door to the bedroom opened.

Soft breathing turned to laboured gasps as knees hit the floor.

“Oh, John. Oh, John, I’m so sorry… I’m so sorry, my love…”

And then there was the soothing, mint-like scent of alpha, climbing over him. Covering his face in kisses.

In love.

John opened his eyes. “Sherlock?”

“Yes, my angel, my beautiful…” Sherlock kissed his ears, his jaw, his cheeks. “I’m so sorry I kept you waiting… something happened… I didn’t see…”

“Sherlock,” John tried to engage his brain as Sherlock scented at his neck and let out a growl of lust. “Sherlock, you read my message.”

“I did.” He licked a strip up John’s throat.

“You saw… I’m going…”

“You have to be my mate,” Sherlock said, voice very low and very deep. “You’re mine, John.”

The possessive stung, deep down, but John was too much in his heat to care a deal. “Yours… You know. I’ll stay. Yours. When I leave.”

“You’re not going anywhere, my omega,” Sherlock growled. “You need me.”

“I need…” John was losing the grip on his thoughts. “Sherlock…”

A fresh gush of slick distracted them both.

John wailed.

Sherlock snarled, stripping his clothes in an instant, tearing through cloth in his lust. He picked John up and put him on the bed like he weighed nothing, scenting hard at his neck before moving down the bed to John’s hard cock, licking at the sore red flesh before taking John’s hips and flipping him over onto all fours.

“Sherlock…” John looked back, fear showing on his face. “Sherlock – Sherlock, I –”

Sherlock seemed to shake himself. “I won’t… hurt you, John. I…” his gaze dropped to John’s entrance. Followed by a single finger, that swirled around the puffy, soft, soaking flesh, tracing the size, the shape of the hole that begged to be filled as John made a noise too torn and ragged to be called a moan.

“Please,” he gasped as soon as he found his voice. “Sherlock, please. I want… Please..!”

Sherlock groaned in want, parting John’s arse cheeks with one hand as he positioned his cock with the other, pressing the head of his cock to John’s hole.

John couldn’t wait. The promise was too much for his heat-addled mind to deal with.

He backed up, taking Sherlock’s cock inside himself before the alpha could thrust. “Ahhhh…” he moaned in relief as some of his insides filled, but not nearly enough. “Sher-”

Sherlock didn’t need telling. He was running on instinct as much as John, and there was no turning back, now. The air was full of pheromones, John was someway impaled on cock, and there was no way either of them could walk away.

Sherlock thrust.

John shouted, his insides stretching in sweet fulfilment, his heart-rate slowing, and a fresh wave of cooling sweat running down his brow. Sherlock seated himself entirely inside, the swelling of his knot partially formed, sitting just at John’s prostate like a delicious bead, rubbing over the sweet spot even as they both paused, getting their breath, relishing in how this could feel so familiar, and yet so entirely different.

And then Sherlock began to move.

John had no choice but to submit. His entrance was clenching around the thrusts, his hole stretching and tightening as the swelling knot was shoved in and out of him, slick splattering the bedsheets as their skin slapped together. Sherlock was taking him hard and fast – taking him and claiming him, because this was an act of ownership.

He was Sherlock’s. Or, almost.

John wailed as his cock throbbed in a near-dry orgasm, a few drops of omega come falling onto the bedding, his entrance clamping down hard on the thick alpha cock, his cervix blossoming open, readying his body to conceive.

And Sherlock obliged, shoving forward hard, his knot popping near-painfully over the tight rim of muscle to rest into John, at the same instant that the alpha roared in orgasm, with what felt like litres of come spilling into the omega.

Sherlock leant forward, gave John’s neck a lick, a kiss.

And then bit.

John’s vision went white.

 

*

 

It went on for three days. More. It went on until it stopped.

In the lucid moments, John would touch at his new bond-bite, feeling the sore skin, the broken wound that was tender and swollen. He would listen to the laboured sleep-breathing of his mate, Sherlock, beside him.

He would wonder how he could do this.

Sherlock, in the times their wakefulness coincided, would cradle John. Take the omega into his arms and hold him as though he was as fragile as crystal, stroke down his limbs and kiss him so gently it would make John cry. It would make both of them cry.

They would lie, their faces pressed together, silently, tears rolling down their faces because they could no longer argue. They could barely speak. Because John was going to do the unthinkable.

“Stay,” Sherlock would breathe.

“I love you,” John would reply, the rush of heat beginning again, making him seek out Sherlock’s cock once more.

They were bonded, now. In more than legal terms. This was a bonding of souls, of bodies and minds – they would never truly be apart, no matter the miles, unless they wanted to be. If they fell out of love, their bond would, in years to come, eventually crumble as Violet and Siger Holmes’ had. But now, fresh and new, and awash with love, their bond was the strongest it would ever be.

And John would attempt to walk away from it in less than a day.

 

*

 

He woke, on the Friday, early.

So early, the sun wasn’t up.

Truth be told, he wasn’t sure he had slept. He’d twisted and turned all night, anxiety gnawing at his guts, the stress of what he had to do making him feel ill.

How could he do this?

He stared at the ceiling.

He had no idea. He hadn’t thought of exactly how. Only that he would leave. Would he kiss Sherlock goodbye?

No – he might wake up.

That meant that their last kiss, for now, was muddled in a haze of heat. John couldn’t even remember it properly.

Had he said _I love you_? He didn’t know

There was no time to dwell.

John slipped out of bed, standing, letting his spinning head settle.

He looked over at Sherlock.

And, for a moment, he thought he saw Sherlock close an eye.

But he couldn’t have, surely? Sherlock would never let him go.

 _I love you_ , John whispered silently, his heart already breaking.

His sleeping, or pretending, mate did not reply.

John crept from the room, his legs aching and trembling. He was in dire need of a shower, but daren’t risk it. He snuck through the flat, up to his old room, and ran the taps in the old sink, praying the pipes wouldn’t rattle and wake Sherlock up.

If he had to look at Sherlock’s eyes, he would give in, he knew he would.

He gave himself a rough wash with a flannel and soap, drying himself on an old hand-towel before dressing. Dressing in uniform, for the first time.

His fingers shook so badly he could barely tie his boots.

He pulled the trousers up and buttoned them, passing a hand over his stomach, feeling more than a brief pang of regret for the pregnancy he was about to prevent from happening.

John had to go down three steps at once, to hide the thump of his boots. His backpack was digging into his shoulders.

He stood, in the lounge, catching his breath.

He could still stay.

Stay with his mate, stay with his love, their babies-to-be. Stay here, safe and warm and loved and cared for.

He could stay.

John looked at the bedroom door, and didn’t try to stop his tears, the clawing feeling in his chest, the tightness in his stomach, the loss of what was to come.

He about-faced. And left.

 

*

 

Every step was agony.

It wasn’t the physical distance that hurt. It was the knowledge he was leaving, for many months, maybe years, with only phone calls and letters to bridge the gap.

It was the knowledge that he was breaking Sherlock’s heart with every yard.

He hailed a cab, and got into it, slumping into the backseat and putting his head in his hands, not bothering to hold back the sobs as he was driven to the clinic. He kept on crying as the doctor gave him the after-heat pill, and then the shot – enough to stop his heats and scent for sixth months – and managed to dry his eyes only once given a cup of tea and a hand on the shoulder.

No one tried to comfort him. What would be the point? No one knew what he was going through.

No one else knew what it was like to carve out your own heart for the sake of selfish want.

“John?” a nurse poked her head around the curtain. “John, your bus is here. The other recruits are in the car park.”

“Thank you,” he said, getting up, abandoning his half-drunk tea, and picking up his backpack, every step like standing on a knife that went straight to his heart.

 _You could still go home_ …

He went out into the car park, where there were a couple dozen lads hanging about, some waiting, some off the bus from its previous pick-up, having a breather. John handed his papers and his bag to an officer, who saluted him, and John faltered before saluting back – he was a soldier, now. Of course. A doctor, later. A soldier, now. The bag was stowed away, and John tried not to feel too alone as he stood beside the group of young, mostly alpha men.

“John?”

He looked up.

“John? John Watson, is that you?”

He caught the eye of the speaker, and his mouth dropped open.

“J-James?”

“You remember me!” James Sholto grinned, delighted. Now a six-foot, shaven-headed alpha with muscular arms and a uniform straining across the chest, he still had the same boyish grin and sparkle in his eye that John remembered from that evening on the rounders pitch – the evening before it all went so wrong.

“Sure, I remember you,” John smiled, shaking his hand. “I never forget a shark-attack scar,” he pointed at his own chin.

James roared with laughed. “Oh god, yeah, I forgot I used to say that. Fuck… Look at you,” he looked John over. “You… you’re one of us, then?”

“Royal Medical Corps,” John pointed to his tiny badge, sewn beneath his breast pocket. “Army Doctor to be.”

“Jesus, you always were a clever sod,” James shook his head, but kept smiling. “I thought you’d vanished for good, like. You just… disappeared.”

“It’s a long story,” John sighed, grateful the collar of his jacket hid his new bond-bite.

“Well,” James nodded at the lads starting to get on the bus, “We’ve got a long trip, yeah? Come on – I’m right behind you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, that's The End, for this fic! Yes, there will be a Part Two! Thank you everyone for all the comments, kudos, shares on Tumblr and so on - you've all been so wonderful at supporting this story, and I hope you'll tune in for the next part, too. Xxx


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